While the excitement, even joy, that Annie Dillard expresses in A Chase would seem grossly out of place

, one discovers by reading further into the narrative that this is truly not the case. Through the course of the story, Dillard recalls a time of her youth in which her and a group of mischievous friends, lacking any wholesome activities, decide to pelt oncoming cars with snowballs. Through the course of their hooliganism, a black Buick approached. It seemed the ideal target. However, unique of all the other automobiles, this one stopped upon contact with the frozen missiles. A man came running out. Sprinting away, the author embarks on an exhilarating tale of the sprint through Pittsburgh’s frigid backstreets, fleeing from the silent giant chasing them. However, over the course of their flight, Dillard’s alarm becomes replaced with a sort of euphoric joy at the thrill of the chase. She begins to relate to the man, seeing as how he knew “…what I thought only children who trained at football knew: that you have to fling yourself at what you’re doing, you have to point yourself, forget yourself, aim, dive”. The man has lost himself just as she has, and now they both simply run, one after the other, one before the last. And then, it is over; the man catches them. The prey and quarry are both momentarily stymied by their exhaustion. “You stupid kids”, the man says, and he begins a tirade against them that seems a mere afterthought, tacked on to the glory of the chase they both just experienced. Anticlimactic? No, for the true height of the story resides in the pursuit, rather than the resolution,

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