Quotes About Nocturnal

What is a potto? It is a little furry creature that sleeps all day with its head between its legs and then walks about very, very slowly all night, high in the trees, slowly eating leaves and creeping up on birds as they roost and eating them too.

The clamorous owl, that nightly hoots and wonders At out quaint spirits.

I stay up late; I'm like a vampire. I stay up until, like, 6 A.M. and then sleep till 4 P.M. I lay in bed till it's dark, and then I come alive in the night.

The pigs stuck out their little feet and snored.

it woke him up and allowed his dreams, his nocturnal desires and random wishes, to condense into a semblance of rationality.

Owls, meanwhile, display some darker tendencies.

Back at the Swan, the cat was asleep, curled against the chimney breast, which still exhaled a gentle warmth. Its eyelids flickered with the images of cat dreams that would be even more perplexing to us than the stories our human brains concoct nocturnally. Its ear twitched and the dream faded instantly.

Night hath a thousand eyes.

But for the last couple of days Marce had been fighting a cold, which made his snoring both louder and more random. When it woke Cardenia up, Marce sounded like he was two cavemen having a very urgent conversation with each other about discovering fire, or hunting a feral hog, or something else along that line.

With their souls of patent leather, they come down the road. Hunched and nocturnal, where they breathe they impose, silence of dark rubber, and fear of fine sand.

It's four A.M.! Who goes to bed this early!?

Thus, a nocturnal reality of the soul, of the incorporeal--which is not nothing--but which needs to 'adorn' itself with the visible--which is like the opposite of the visible--The visible opens onto an invisible that is its relief or its structure and where identity is rather non-difference.

Also the moon and I have this in common: we both are wanderers across the night.

a porch light. Cecropias also fly by day, unlike most other moths. They like open country,

Somewhere a cicada conversed irritably with the night, then fell silent.

The night birds were calling.

So spoke Grenouille the Great and, while the peasantry of scent danced and celebrated beneath him, he glided with wide-stretched wings down from his golden clouds, across the nocturnal fields of his soul, and home to his heart.