Quotes About Night

Night is real. Night is not an absence of light, but in fact, it is daytime that is a brief respite from the looming darkness … The

The moon this particular evening is a great hole carved through nightflesh to reveal pale, luminescent bone,

Customs inspectors could not stop the export of software through telephone lines; labour inspectors could not stop software engineers from talking to customers in America at night; excise inspectors could not harass the IT firms because the government did not levy tax on services. Much like Gurgaon, India's knowledge economy literally grew at night when the government slept.

A la luz del farolillo, cuya dudosa claridad se perdía entre las espesas sombras de

In a dream, in a vision of the night, when deep sleep falleth upon men, in slumberings upon the bed; then he openeth the ears of men and sealeth their instruction that he may withdraw man from his purpose, and hide pride from man.'' —Job xxxiii., 15.

Knowledge without Spirit is like finding yourself on a cold night with all the wood in the world and having no flame with which to ignite it.

Some writers later, describing the events of that night and day, wrote that Wan'yen of the Altai had seen a spirit-dragon of the river and become afraid. Writers do that sort of thing. They like dragons in their tales.

Lancelot was following, slowly, on the dark and narrow path. All about him and from high above, the mighty trees of Pendaran Wood were letting fall their green leaves, gently, on a night in the midst of summer, to honour the passage of the man.

Screams of pain, cries of rage and fury cut the green night like blades of sound.

SAM OWEN always fished by night.

Blood spouted into the night air like an oil strike. In vain he grabbed at the stump and tried to stem the flow with an oily rag. The blood spurted into his face, blinding him.

Green with sleep the skin breathes night I hear you turning worlds in your dark dream The sheets like leaves in a private season Speak of singular self which lies between. Your breathing is a thing I cannot enter Like a season more remote than winter; Green with sleep breathes, breathes the skin, I hear you turning worlds in your dark dream.

One has to go away, leave the self. How far must one not arrive in order to write, how far must one wander and wear out and have pleasure? One must walk as far as the night. One's own night. Walking through the self toward dark.

Night, the mother of fear and mystery, was coming upon me.

There has always been a 'and this is where I come in' feeling about a night call. And as my lights swept the cobbles of the deserted market place it was there again, a sense of returning to fundamentals, of really being me.

one of his luxuries was to wake up in the middle of the night so that he could turn over and go to sleep again.

Billions of hard, bright stars shone with relentless glitter across the tropic night sky.

The heaventree of stars hung with humid nightblue fruit.

The whores would be just coming out of their houses making ready for the night, yawning lazily after their sleep and settling the hairpins in their clusters of hair. He would pass by them calmly waiting for a sudden movement of his own will or a sudden call to his sinloving soul from their soft perfumed flesh.

Going to dark bed there was a square round Sinbad the Sailor roc's auk's egg in the night of the bed of all the auks of the rocs of Darkinbad the Brightdayler.

As he crossed Grattan Bridge he looked down the river towards the lower quays and pitied the poor stunted houses. They seemed to him a band of tramps, huddled together along the riverbanks, their old coats covered with dust and soot, stupefied by the panorama of sunset and waiting for the first chill of night bid them arise, shake themselves and begone.

Every night as I gazed up at the window I said softly to myself the word paralysis.

When all things repose, do you alone Awake to hear the sweet harps play To Love before him on his way, And the night wind answering in antiphon Till night is overgone?

What were they now but cerements shaken from the body of death—the fear he had walked in night and day, the incertitude that had ringed him round, the shame that had abased him within and without—cerements, the linens of the grave? His soul had arisen from the grave of boyhood, spurning her graveclothes.