Quotes About Night

The city's more beautiful at night, you know: the people of the night always tell the truth.

in this night, pure and everlasting, like an old fairy tale, being Turkish felt infinitely better than being poor.

So this is how Mevlut came to understand the truth that a part of him had known all along: walking around the city at night made him feel as if he were wandering around inside his own head.

As Çetin drove us home, slowly and carefully, I realized I was happy. These dark, empty streets that now belonged to Istanbul's dog packs, these avenues so ugly by daylight, hemmed in by concrete apartment buildings in such dreadful condition that it sapped my will just to look at them-now they looked alluringly mysterious, like poems.

He sensed, now, that the streets on which he sold boza in the night and the universe in his mind were one and the same .... the world within his soul reflected in the shadows of the city.

At night, he could sense the weight of the concrete, the hardness, and the horrors of the city around him.

If you listen very carefully, you can hear the good fairy come in the night and leave our assignment for tomorrow.

While you're governing the colony and I'm writing political philosophy, They'll never guess that in the darkness of night we sneak into each other's room and play checkers and have pillow fights.

Nights were so real that days began to seem dreamlike to him.

The moon in her chariot of pearl

A dreamer is one who can only find his way by moonlight, and his punishment is that he sees the dawn before the rest of the world.

Nature....she will hang the night stars so that I may walk abroad in the darkness without stumbling, and send word the wind over my footprints so that none may track me to my hurt: she will cleanse me in great waters, and with bitter herbs make me whole.

The long black nights, when the moon hides her face, when the stars are afraid, are not so black. The silence that dwells in the forest is not so black. There is nothing in the world so black as thy hair.

Out of the unreal shadows of the night comes back the real life that we had known

The Nakba. Or the Catastrophe. Or the Hejira. Also known as the Exodus, the Rape, the Cataclysm, the Forcing, the Night We Blackened Our Faces and Left.

Ignorance is the night of the mind, but a night without moon or star.

Good. Drink your tea, he ordered. It will make you feel better. Nothing will make me feel better, she thought, but she drank it down. It was hot and sweet. Mr. Humphreys must have put his entire month's sugar ration into it. She drained the cup, feeling ashamed of herself. She wasn't the only one who'd had a bad night.

Three o'clock's when every doubt and regret and guilty thought bubbles up out of your subconscious to plague you. 'The dark night of the soul,' F. Scott Fitzgerald called it.

The frailty of everything revealed at last. Old and troubling issues resolved into nothingness and night. The last instance of a thing takes the class with it. Turns out the light and is gone. Look around you. Ever is a long time. But the boy knew what he knew. That ever is no time at all.

What he could bear in the waking world he could not by night and he sat awake for fear the dream would return.

Lying under such a myriad of stars. The sea's black horizon. He rose and walked out and stood barefoot in the sand and watched the pale surf appear all down the shore and roll and crash and darken again. When he went back to the fire he knelt and smoothed her hair as she slept and he said if he were God he would have made the world just so and no different.

The nights were blinding cold and casket black and the long reach of the morning had a terrible silence to it.

Dear friend now in the dusty clockless hours of the town when the streets lie black and steaming in the wake of the watertrucks and now when the drunk and the homeless have washed up in the lee of walls in alleys or abandoned lots and cats go forth highshouldered and lean in the grim perimeters about, now in these sootblacked brick or cobbled corridors where lightwire shadows make a gothic harp of cellar doors no soul shall walk save you.

All night sheetlightning quaked sourceless to the west beyond the midnight thunderheads, making a bluish day of the distant desert, the mountains on the sudden skyline stark and black and livid like a land of some other order out there whose true geology was not stone but fear.