Best 8172 quotes in «night quotes» category

In all the world there is no desolation more complete than the polar night. It is a return to the Ice Age— no warmth, no life, no movement. Only those who have experienced it can fully appreciate what it means to be without the sun day after day and week after week. Few men unaccustomed to it can fight off its effects altogether, and it has driven some men mad.

In a sleepless ordinary night like any other, Black is the warmest colour...close your eyes to see better.

In between waking up from bed in the morning and going back in the evening, let something happen. God will bless that “something” for you.

In day-time we investigate, but at night believe.

I never think of burning a star when I acquire certain sadness attached by suspending from the top of a raging dark sky within my unnerving me. From the poem- Not A NightGazer

Infinite sensations. Pearly night air.

In later years it would sometimes happen that I’d wake up at night and see the stars so real in the sky and so meaningful in their course, and couldn’t understand how anyone could bring themselves to miss so much of the world.

In my window night invents another night

İnsanlar, gitgide, istediklerine, dilediklerine inanmakla yetindiklerini, düşünüp tartmayı, ölçünmeyi, olanı biteni görmeğe çalışmayı yavaş yavaş bir yana ittiklerini daha fark etmiyorlardır belki de. Bunun farkına varmağa başladıklarında ise ortalık iyice kararmış olacak. Sabahları güneş yeniden doğar gibi olsa da, ortalık yeniden aydınlanır gibi olsa da, gecenin karanlığı bütün bütün dağılmayacak hiç.

In the beauty of the mornings we forget about the night; in the beauty of the night we forget about the mornings! When you meet the beauty, you drop anchor in the present time and all other times disappear from your mind!

In the darkness of the night while removing the long colourful gown that covers my nakedness, there is chill penetrating bare cells and the sky is as silent as ever. Another day has withered unto the lap of mighty earth, to make her heart fertile, to feed those lives sprouting and then again to raise up to the skies to kiss life! This home is not yours, nor this earth! A breeze that caresses the orphan longings of the senses, like that of the softest music – so is life, a passing breeze! All I own is this moment! O night, do you see stars blinking hidden amidst the darkest clouds? O life, can you inhale the fragrance of unborn flowers dancing wet in the rain? O life, do you hear a song from the farthest skies, a secret melody of silence that I cherish deep within?

In the daylight, order ruled, fences stood, how-do-you-do's and polite nods were the recipe. But at night, darkness rendered everything still and hush and secret. Minnie was a curator of secrets.

In the darkness and the snow, the street is empty and it is just the night, the ice and me.

In the distance, the Himalayan range flared into fluorescence, as its snowy peaks reflected the moonlight back at the velvet sky, split into half by the shimmering strip of the Milky Way.

In the middle of the night, I saw chaos bleeding out of darkness and peace. Everything that was said and seen before seemed like a paradox. I saw the graves of lies breaking open and the truth crawling out silently into the cold hearts.

In the morning, celebrate the beauty and warmth of sun light, in the evening, celebrate the song of silence and love of night.

In the night, I am kept awake by the endless chatter of my inner self. I hear it speak softly of old hurts and fondly of past loves, while its demands and anxieties resound throughout me in multitudes. I could be calm and composed all day long, but the moment it is dark, my mind riots.

In the silence of night, great minds either unite or die

In the shores of twilight, Wide and deep as your eyes, I swim. In a way, I feel her Night, a crowned goddess commanding the stars to swim, So peaceful, even death escapes into serenity. Stars so far, they seem as they tell the living world, lights, live into shinning, die into nothingness. Worlds I want to travel, away to shadows of your eyes in the hold of your lips. So far, so far away.... As your kiss, as my lover. Night, With a soft touch, Touches my face, winds to the trees, sunlight on grass, life, breath, so quite, death screams in the abyss, a black pearl with grains of sand. The dance of the night..reminds me of her. Her tender laughter, the gleam in her enormous eyes, her soft whirlpool lips. As a reflection from dark streams, She reveals hot love, Nothing hidden, no shame, just love that hurts. The solace in the night makes me cry... The lights of stars as arrows to me. Night, Hits my eyes, Beauty of the wilderness, Calling me, Homeless in a city, naked on cold steel At home with the sea, with night above, foam of waters breaks below. As my companion, friend I speak to. I say to the night sky. Does she love me? When travels of the heart goes outside of me, outside the seas into clouds of your warmth, To another place in her heart trying to find out... Does your heart want me to visit or stay? Night, Calm is the winds, feeling the air, Night, She is beautiful.. Hitting me with such painful softness, I don't want day to arrive, I want to stay.. In the night, Peaceful, loving...with you... Night...vast space in time, Nothing, empty, to hold, for night, you are me. For I cannot have her. A love vast, beautiful and alone. For in the night, We see each other, In the light, Nothing hidden, Everything revealed, Night..I love you.,,as I love her. For I don't have her but I have you. As my love, invisible and forever waiting like a lost sailor in the night sea....

I pass a construction site, abandoned for the night, and a few blocks later, the playground of the elementary school my son attended, the metal sliding board gleaming under a streetlamp and the swings stirring in the breeze. There's an energy to these autumn nights that touches something primal inside of me. Something from long ago. From my childhood in western Iowa. I think of high school football games and the stadium lights blazing down on the players. I smell ripening apples, and the sour reek of beer from keg parties in the cornfields. I feel the wind in my face as I ride in the bed of an old pickup truck down a country road at night, dust swirling in the taillights and the entire span of my life yawning out ahead o me. It's the beautiful thing about youth. There's a weightlessness that permeates everything because no damning choices have been made, no paths committed to, and the road forking out ahead is pure, unlimited potential. I love my life, but I haven't felt that lightness of being in ages. Autumn nights like this are as close as I get.

I realized I still had my eyes shut. I had shut them when I put my face to the screen, like I was scared to look outside. Now I had to open them. I looked out the window and saw for the first time how the hospital was out in the country. The moon was low in the sky over the pastureland; the face of it was scarred and scuffed where it had just torn up out of the snarl of scrub oak and madrone trees on the horizon. The stars up close to the moon were pale; they got brighter and braver the farther they got out of the circle of light ruled by the giant moon. It called to mind how I noticed the exact same thing when I was off on a hunt with Papa and the uncles and I lay rolled in blankets Grandma had woven, lying off a piece from where the men hunkered around the fire as they passed a quart jar of cactus liquor in a silent circle. I watched that big Oregon prairie moon above me put all the stars around it to shame. I kept awake watching, to see if the moon ever got dimmer or if the stars got brighter, till the dew commenced to drift onto my cheeks and I had to pull a blanket over my head. Something moved on the grounds down beneath my window — cast a long spider of shadow out across the grass as it ran out of sight behind a hedge. When it ran back to where I could get a better look, I saw it was a dog, a young, gangly mongrel slipped off from home to find out about things went on after dark. He was sniffing digger squirrel holes, not with a notion to go digging after one but just to get an idea what they were up to at this hour. He’d run his muzzle down a hole, butt up in the air and tail going, then dash off to another. The moon glistened around him on the wet grass, and when he ran he left tracks like dabs of dark paint spattered across the blue shine of the lawn. Galloping from one particularly interesting hole to the next, he became so took with what was coming off — the moon up there, the night, the breeze full of smells so wild makes a young dog drunk — that he had to lie down on his back and roll. He twisted and thrashed around like a fish, back bowed and belly up, and when he got to his feet and shook himself a spray came off him in the moon like silver scales. He sniffed all the holes over again one quick one, to get the smells down good, then suddenly froze still with one paw lifted and his head tilted, listening. I listened too, but I couldn’t hear anything except the popping of the window shade. I listened for a long time. Then, from a long way off, I heard a high, laughing gabble, faint and coming closer. Canada honkers going south for the winter. I remembered all the hunting and belly-crawling I’d ever done trying to kill a honker, and that I never got one. I tried to look where the dog was looking to see if I could find the flock, but it was too dark. The honking came closer and closer till it seemed like they must be flying right through the dorm, right over my head. Then they crossed the moon — a black, weaving necklace, drawn into a V by that lead goose. For an instant that lead goose was right in the center of that circle, bigger than the others, a black cross opening and closing, then he pulled his V out of sight into the sky once more. I listened to them fade away till all I could hear was my memory of the sound.

I sat up in the strange bed fearing it had been a dream, afraid I would never see her again. Not because I wanted anything from her, only her presence. The disappearance of the presence of beauty is the most despairing of events on this time-wheel of ours that rolls onward towards death.

I slept under the moonlight and set my soul free, caged within jars like fireflies".

I sat on the steps of my father's church thinking how much I loved the dark. The taste of what it offered sweet on the tongue of my imagination. The delicious burn of trespass on my conscience. I was a sinner. I knew that without a doubt. But I was not alone. And the night was the accomplice of us all.

I resign, the evening seemed to say, as it paled and faded above the battlements and prominences, moulded, pointed, of hotel, flat, and block of shops, I fade, she was beginning, I disappear, but London would have none of it, and rushed her bayonets into the sky, pinioned her, constrained her to partnership in her revelry.

I see you from afar—fragile and shy as a star gleaming through a cloudy rift

I studied a crescent moon hung crooked in a plum purple sky and thought about what it would be like to truly be seen.

It ain’t much of a story, but I don’t feel like tellin it at the moment. Maybe a different night under different stars. These ones are too hopeful.

I think so much may be it never ends when this night ends there's another at hand I sleep with one and wake with one with everything else on this life goes on.

I suppose even monsters can be afraid of the dark.

I think I can hear the unseen moon

It begins to rain. The first harsh, sparse, swift drops rush through the leaves and across the ground in a long sigh, as though of relief from intolerable suspense. They are big as buckshot, warm as though fired from a gun; they sweep across the lantern in a vicious hissing. Pa lifts his face, slackmouthed, the wet black rim of snuff plastered close along the base of his gums; from behind his slack-faced astonishment he 'muses as though from beyond time, upon the ultimate outrage. Cash looks once at the sky, then at the lantern. The saw has not faltered, the running gleam of its pistoning edge unbroken. "Get something to cover the lantern," he says.

It had grown darker now; it was full night already, with the swiftness of the mountainous latitudes. The square of sky over the patio was soft and dark as indigo velour, with magnificent stars like many-legged silver spiders festooned on its underside. Below them the white roses gleamed phosphorescently in the starlight, with a magnesium-like glow. There was a tiny splash from the depths of the well as a pebble or grain of dislodged earth fell in. ("The Moon Of Montezuma")

it is the deep-black-sky quiet time of night, which is the halfway time between the sun setting and the sun rising when even the night animals are quiet—as if they, like day animals, take a break in the middle of their work to rest.

It is the hour of departure, the hard cold hour which the night fastens to all timetables.

I tilted my head back, breathing deeply. It was a clear, moonless night, and after those long months underground, the sight of all that sky was dizzying. And so many stars—a glittering, tangled mass that seemed close enough to touch. I let their light fall over me like a balm, grateful for the air in my lungs, the night all around me.

It is at night that light gets all its beauty.

It is at night that we talk , for that is the only time when people belong to themselves. The outer sun goes out and lets us look at the inner sun

It is good to enjoy a comfortable life for a while. However, the enjoyment derived from comforts magnifies when it follows stress. When you are tired with the hard work of the day, you get better sleep at night.

It is inevitable that there will come a time when mankind will go out more at night and stay indoors during the day to avoid harmful solar rays.

It is the kind of glassy night when sound travels miles across the surface of the sea; the air a crystal wineglass, susceptible to the slightest flick of a fingertip.

It is unnecessary to heighten the glory of day by comparing it with the preceding twilight.

It is wonderful, this whole business of tickling and kissing God every night.

It's a beautiful night to think about who I am in her eyes.

It's a Full Moon tonight! The Moon is a source of energy for me. On these lonely nights when I am not writing or listening to music, I drown myself in moonlight! It is an aphrodisiac for me. The Moon bathes my skin with the sublime silvery rays and it transforms me into a Jackal! I become a Jackal every Full Moon night! It is a blessing as well as a curse for me. I howl, I go crazy in the silvery moon beams, and I search for nothingness. Once reached, this state of nothingness exhilarates the mind, body, and soul into a powerful limitless state that can radiate love, passion, and energy. The Jackal has risen again tonight!

It's made of poetry and art and lost hearts enhanced in magic It's the kingdom of love, where free spirits find their resilience It's the dream catcher of lost passion and deep silence It's the torso where rebel souls find their homeland It's the beginning of a dream and the end of another It's what keeps you up in the night, when you're breathing dreams It's that madness of artists caught in the wind It's the night on a full moon drown between chimeras It's you making love to me, under the blessings of Seine..." (fragment from "Paris", chapter Hope)

It's an easy guess, why some get famous over night and not during the day.

It’s no big deal. It’s kind of like a tattoo. It won’t hurt, not too much, just a few stitches and it’ll be all over. It’s really interesting how it’s done. You won’t believe where your soul hides. Go on, take a guess. Where do you think it is?

It’s not easy to kill; it’s not supposed to be. If it is, then there’s something wrong with you. But sometimes good people have to do unpleasant things just so we can come home at night to our kids.

It's late at night when the memory comes for me, like it always seems to when the relief of sleep seems ready to draw me under.