Quotes About Night

Are you still awake?' he might ask in the intimate whisper of 3 a.m. lovers who half arise, warm and happy, to find they have been in someone's company during all those lost hours of sleep.

I turned silences and nights into words. What was unutterable, I wrote down. I made the whirling world stand still.

Night gives a black look to everything, whatever it may be.

When, in some dreadful and ghastly dream, we reach the moment of greatest horror, it awakes us; thereby banishing all the hideous shapes that were born of the night. And life is a dream: when the moment of greatest horror compels us to break it off, the same thing happens.

She thought of the city at night, of cities at night. Discarded constellations of old stars, fallen from the sky, rearranged on Earth in patterns and pathways and towers. Invaded by weevils that have learned to walk upright.

The nights are clear but suffused with sloth and sullen expectation.

The boat that Ammu would use to cross the river. To love by night the man her children loved by day.

At least not until the Terror took hold of him. Not until he saw, night after night, a little boat being rowed across the river. Not until he saw it return at dawn. Not until he saw what his Untouchable son had touched. More than touched. Enter. Loved.

La nuit avait les coudes posés sur l'eau où ricochaientles fragiles échardes des étoiles filantes.

By the time they got back, the lights were all out and everybody was asleep. Everybody, that is, except for Guih Kyom the dung beetle. He was wide awake and on duty, lying on his back with his legs in the air to save the world in case the heavens fell.

She remembered reading somewhere that even after people died, their hair and nails kept growing. Like starlight, traveling through the universe long after the stars themselves had died. Like cities. Fizzy, effervescent, simulating the illusion of life while the planet they had plundered died around them. She thought of the city at night, of cities at night. Discarded constellations of old stars, fallen from the sky, rearranged on earth in patterns and pathways and towers.

The infinite tenderness of motherhood and the reckless rage of a suicide bomber. It was this that grew inside her, and eventually led her to love by night the man her children loved

The rest of the night went no better.

The question was how to buy the child time to find out. It wasn't clear he'd last the night.

Given the hours and the extremely limited exposure, being an overnight anchor is a job without great appeal.

I am the sun and moon and forever hungry the sharpened edge where day and night shall meet and not be one. from "From the House of Yemanjá

Somewhere the moon has fallen through a window and broken into thirty pieces of silver.

I paused finally and watched the trees for slashes of light, but saw none. As my heart settled and my ears became less occupied I listened and heard nothing but the thready pulse of the night. And I sensed that the hunt was over. I'd been prey and now I was not. Prey knows this. Prey knows when it has escaped.

But to get back to the moon, the moon! Ah, the moon! Farmers plant by it, fishermen fish by it, werewolves were by it, bartenders and orderlies in bughouses sigh and shiver at the thoughts of it …

And I wish I had the power to tell tem that the despair of their hearts was not to be final, and their night was not without hope. For the battle they lost can never be lost.

Things disturb us in the night. Sometimes they are our consciences. Sometimes they are our secrets. Sometimes they are our fears, translated from one idiom to another. Often what pinches and pricks, gnaws, claws, stabs, and suffocates, like a seventeenth-century witch, is the irritatingly unsolved puzzle in the next room. The

What is a poem then? [...] I see a poem as a multicolored strip behind peeling plaster, in separate shining segments. I try to connect hands and horizons, glances and the objects imprisoned in them. That's how it is in daylight. At night [...] poems are like spiriling curves that grow to completeness by themselves. The hardest thing is to hold onto them through waking into consciousness.

The night transfixed me; the night took possession of me, enveloped and penetrated me, impalpable, insubstantial. Turned to stone.

The night stared me in the face, amorphous, blind, infinite, without frontier