Certain writings, literature

I am browsing through a book about rocks. It is beautiful, talks of rock, water, earth and the billions of years that would have worked on a stone, about scale and mind's eye to be able to see through earth's history. 

This note though, is about writing. About somehow the pace of certain authors, and their peace, their stillness and tranquility is different. The one above that I am browsing through is like any other non-fiction: informative, opening thought tangents, and interesting. But there is something when say, Annie Dillard talks about the same things, rocks, sand, that lifts somehow everything to an existential, philosphical level and yet it has that unhurried, peaceful feel to it. And maybe it stands out only when you read others, the rest of the mortals. That others, the other mortals (people like us) are communicating, there is information being transmitted, and there's the pace of reporting, of communicating, the human conversation that is quick, efficient and yet sometimes beautiful. But then there is Annie Dillard, or perhaps she stands proxy for much other literature, where there is an unhurried pace, less of communication, perhaps more of reflection, contemplation, stillness. And in that stillness, gently somehow, they unfold the secrets of existence.

Somehow, there is a different depth, a different richness, and yet a stillness, un-heaviness, the riches that don't weigh you down, but make you calm, peaceful, quiet, tranquil, allowing you to perhaps enter a similar state of reflection, where you, like a mirror hold in you the thought that perhaps Annie Dillard held, and find similar tranquility.