Best 8172 quotes in «night quotes» category

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

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

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

I suppose even monsters can be afraid of the dark.

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.

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")

I think I can hear the unseen moon

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

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

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

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

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 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.

It's only a moment, but ye feel as though it will last forever. Strange, is it no?" he said thoughtfully. "Ye can almost see the light go as ye watch - and yet there's no time ye can look and say 'Now! Now it's night.

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 six o'clock; my drink is at the three-quarter mark - three-quarters down not three-quarters up - and the night begins. ("New York Blues")

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 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 the beating of my heart. The way I lie awake, playing with shadows slowly climbing up my wall. The gentle moonlight slipping through my window and the sound of a lonely car somewhere far away, where I long to be too, I think. It’s the way I thought my restless wandering was over, that I’d found whatever I thought I had found, or wanted, or needed, and I started to collect my belongings. Build a home. Safe behind the comfort of these four walls and a closed door. Because as much as I tried or pretended or imagined myself as a part of all the people out there, I was still the one locking the door every night. Turning off the phone and blowing out the candles so no one knew I was home. ’cause I was never really well around the expectations of my personality and I wanted to keep to myself. and because I haven’t been very impressed lately. By people, or places. Or the way someone said he loved me and then slowly changed his mind.

It's the moon that moves me. The sunlight makes everything so obvious.

It's true. I've seen it when the crescent moon shone bright on a cold, dark night. The darker the night, the brighter God's smile.

It takes grace to stop working and go to bed. When in bed, more grace is needed to rise up and begin work again.

It was easy to conclude: The night was young and alive, in its ever so subtle way.

It was a good apple too. A good apple, picked by a madman on a full moon night.

It was dark, now, the gossamer moon hanging among diamond stars in the soft black of the night.

It was a beautiful spring night, the air rain-washed and smelling of crushed blossoms, and Henry felt as if the muscles of his body were singing in unison.

It was dark now, and broodingly sluggish. Like something supine waiting to spring, with just the tip of its tail twitching. Leaves stood still on the trees. An evil green star glinted in the black sky like a hostile eye, like an evil spying eye. ("For The Rest Of Her Life")

It was getting dark by the time I went out, and nobody who knows the country will need to be told how black is the darkness of a November night under high laurel bushes and yew-trees. I walked into the heart of the shrubberies two or three times, not seeing a step before me, till I came out upon the broader carriage-road, where the trees opened a little, and there was a faint grey glimmer of sky visible, under which the great limes and elms stood darkling like ghosts; but it grew black again as I approached the corner where the ruins lay. ("The Open Door")

It was nearing 9 O'clock, and the fist duck was drawing down. Behind the trees, the first star pricked out, low and brilliant. The light breeze of the day had dropped, and the evening was very still. The stream sounded loud. I walked down to the gate and stood leaning on the top bar, enjoying the scent of the roses, and straining to listen for any sound from the lane or the road beyond.

It was night, and the sky spreading into a rain that fell like darkness visible, a glistering where there was no light.

It was raining that night, when we kissed for the first time.

It was normal to drink two pots of coffee during an extreme night shift.

It was not a bed with curtains, but a bed with doors like shutters. This may not seem like a nice way of having a bed, but we would all be glad of the wooden curtains about us at night if we lived in such a cottage, on the side of a hill along which the wind swept like a wild river. Through the cottage it would be streaming all night long. And a poor woman with a cough, or a man who has been out in the cold all day, is very glad of such a place to lie in, and leave the the rest of the house to the wind and the fairies.

It wasn't night, it was simply darkness, with me in the middle hoping all the while that time was carrying on flowing, that something would crop up, me all alone in the middle, with my veins and my muscles dissolving rapidly into nothingness, me made of molecules of flesh and thought, dispersing in a cloud (a process of expansion as sudden as that of the room, a nebula of bedroom and me, between limits that grew dimmer by the moment).

It was on a dreary night of November that I beheld the accomplishment of my toils.

It was the time of night that precedes dawn and is without perspective or reason. It was the hour when regret and fear overwhelm hope and courage and when all that is ugly in us is magnified and when we are most panic-stricken by what we have lost, and what we have almost lost, and what we fear we might lose.

It was the Kojagar full moon, and I was slowly pacing the riverside conversing with myself. It could hardly be called a conversation, as I was doing all the talking and my imaginary companion all the listening. The poor fellow had no chance of speaking up for himself, for was not mine the power to compel him helplessly to answer like a fool? But what a night it was! How often have I tried to write of such, but never got it done! There was not a line of ripple on the river; and from away over there, where the farthest shore of the distant main stream is seen beyond the other edge of the midway belt of sand, right up to this shore, glimmers a broad band of moonlight. Not a human being, not a boat in sight; not a tree, nor blade of grass on the fresh-formed island sand-bank. It seemed as though a desolate moon was rising upon a devastated earth; a random river wandering through a lifeless solitude; a long-drawn fairy-tale coming to a close over a deserted world,—all the kings and the princesses, their ministers and friends and their golden castles vanished, leaving the Seven Seas and Thirteen Rivers and the Unending Moor, over which the adventurous princes fared forth, wanly gleaming in the pale moonlight. I was pacing up and down like the last pulse-beats of this dying world. Every one else seemed to be on the opposite shore—the shore of life—where the British Government and the Nineteenth Century hold sway, and tea and cigarettes.

I’ve always felt safer at night. You can be much more forgiving of yourself, not to mention the world and everyone in it, when your shortcomings aren’t threatened by the brazen light of day. And by shortcomings, I mean damage. The scars are still there, but at least they're easier to hide. I never understood why they shine a fluorescent spotlight in the faces of alleged culprits in old movies to get them to tell the truth. Put me to bed and turn off the lights. I’ll tell you everything. I’ll be who you want me to be, I’ll be honest. I’ll be who I want to be, I’ll be braver. Just don’t ignore me. I really do want to be stronger, sweeter, less afraid all the time. Maybe it’s a within-the-womb thing, but it’s safer in the dark. What they should really warn you about is the light.

I've often been sorry to see a night end, even while I have loved seeing the dawn come.

I've always felt that distant train whistles heard in the dead of night are the universe's way of letting us know the best days are neither ahead nor behind us...they're happening right now, cradled in the palms of our hands. But that doesn't change the fact that the whiskey, weed, and romance eventually runs out and the night will soon turn to day.