That was chiefly because she, and her work, cannot be pigeonholed easily. She seems enamoured of nature, being one who collects rocks, treks in the North Pole and roams the jungles of Ecuador. But she also hates insects with a vengeance.
Then again, she is equally invested in astronomy and geology, likening the sun emerging from a total eclipse to her silver wedding band and finding out the Earth's crust buckles but does not break off irreparably because silicon in the Earth's water keeps all its parts in place.
And just when you think that you have pinned her down as a hardcore science writer, she turns visceral sociologist, bemoaning the 138,000 Bangladeshis killed in a 1991 tsunami and wrestlers eaten up by alligators.
Fittingly, her publishers have asked the equally hard-to-pigeonhole English author Geoff Dyer to write the foreword to this book. It is a bonus for fans of Dyer, who has his own ineffable brand of incisive, offbeat narratives.
Her new essay collection, The Abundance, will go a long way towards introducing her to Generation Z. Perhaps that was her publisher's goal because eight of the 22 essays come from her 1987 autobiography, An American Childhood.
Dillard's aim, if one could call it that, is to awaken the reader's sense of wonder so that he may drink in the delights of everyday life. "We teach our children one thing only, as we were taught: to wake up," she notes.
More importantly, she points out, people have grown so adept at managing transitions in life, the "plunge and surface, lapse and emerge", that they have learnt to discount the efforts and sacrifices they have had to make in doing so.
Much of life is transition, although people hardly notice that moments "plunge and surface, lapse and emerge". Later on in the book, she muses: "Why does death so catch us by surprise, and why love? We still and always want waking. We should amass, half-dressed in long lines like tribesmen, and shake gourds at one another, to wake up; instead, we watch television and miss the show."
Indeed, the great revolution underway in humanity today is the transition from thinking of everything as cause-and-effect to studying how seemingly random happenings actually relate to one another. The last is what Dillard has been doing for much of her life, spanning 14 books and essay collections.
As a child, she recalls in The Abundance's 17th essay, titled Seeing, her way of waking people up was to plant the coins she saved at the roots of trees or cracks in the sidewalk for people to find.
"If you cultivate a healthy poverty and simplicity, so that finding a penny will literally make your day, then, since the world is in fact planted in pennies, you have with your poverty bought a lifetime of days. It is that simple. What you see is what you get."
Her works have endured because she writes such that a person blind at birth can see all that she describes. What is her secret?
She says in the book: "Write about winter in the summer. Describe Norway as Ibsen did, from a desk in Italy... Mark Twain wrote Huckleberry Finn in Hartford, Connecticut. Recently, scholars learnt that Walt Whitman rarely left his room."
The last is, of course, ironic as Whitman was the laureate of the American outdoors.
The Abundance is, however, by no means a feel-good, navel-gazing book. Dillard is too clear-eyed and curious for that. So your armchair trip with her will include watching trapped deer cutting into their necks in a bid to free themselves; how the "muscled ribbon" that is the weasel fights to the death in an eagle's clutches; and ferocious sharks roiling in a wild sea.
"Cruelty is a mystery, and the waste of pain," she muses in the book's 16th essay, plucked from her Pulitzer Prize-winning Pilgrim At Tinker Creek.
Life itself, she notes, is a constant veering between mind and body. As she says of this ultimate paradox: "The mind wants to live forever, or to learn a very good reason why not. The mind wants the world to return its love, or its awareness; the mind wants to know all the world, and all eternity, even God.
"The mind's sidekick, however, will settle for two eggs over easy. The dear, stupid body is as easily satisfied as a spaniel. And, incredibly, the simple spaniel can lure the brawling mind to its dish."
The Abundance is honest and human, and a balm for uncertain times. Her writing has that rare quality of making things you have never found interesting suddenly beguiling.
Witness her analogy for the impermanence of life: "Moths would singe their wings and fall, and their hot wings, as if melted, would stick to the first thing they touched - a pan, a lid, a spoon - so that the snagged moths could flutter only in tiny arcs, unable to break free."
FIVE QUESTIONS THIS BOOK ANSWERS