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night

“Night is purer than day; it is better for thinking, loving and dreaming. At night everything is more intense, more true. The echo of words that have been spoken during the day takes on a new and deeper meaning.”

— Elie Wiesel, Dawn, Share via Whatsapp

“The moon is my mother. She is not sweet like Mary. Her blue garments unloose small bats and owls.”

— Sylvia Plath, Ariel, Share via Whatsapp

“The nearer the dawn the darker the night.”

— Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Share via Whatsapp

“Tread not into the fearsome night But pull the covers high, Step not into the wild dark wood For the Hobbers are dancing nigh”

— Robin Jarvis, The Oaken Throne, Share via Whatsapp

“Soundlessly whispering into the void, my lips moving quickly, silently, without ceasing. Calling his name, calling him to me. Even though there s no use. Even though it s futile. Even though it s way past too late.”

— Alyson Noel, Night Star, Share via Whatsapp

“When the world is itself draped in the mantle of night, the mirror of the mind is like the sky in which thoughts twinkle like stars.”

— Khushwant Singh, Delhi, Share via Whatsapp

“Allah causes the night and the day to succeed each other. Truly, in these things is indeed a lesson for those who have insight.”

— Anonymous, القرآن الكريم, Share via Whatsapp

“We were masters of nature, masters of the world. We had forgotten everything--death, fatigue, our natural needs. Stronger than cold or hunger, stronger than the shots and the desire to die, condemned and wandering, mere numbers, we were the only men on earth.”

— Elie Wiesel, Night, Share via Whatsapp

“By night the skyscraper looms in the smoke and the stars and has a soul.”

— Carl Sandburg, Share via Whatsapp

“That little dance I do each night, tossing in my bed from side to side, when your words like an enchanting flute, play in my head!”

— Nitya Prakash, Share via Whatsapp

“The sound of a pen scratching in the night is a holy sound.”

— Sigrid Nunez, A Feather on the Breath of God, Share via Whatsapp

“On moonlight nights the long, straight street and dirty white walls, nowhere darkened by the shadow of a tree, their peace untroubled by footsteps or a dog s bark, glimmered in the pale recession. The silent city was no more than an assemblage of huge, inert cubes, between which only the mute effigies of great men, carapaced in bronze, with their blank stone or metal faces, conjured up a sorry semblance of what the man had been. In lifeless squares and avenues these tawdry idols lorded it under the lowering sky; stolid monsters that might have personified the rule of immobility imposed on us, or, anyhow, its final aspect, that of a defunct city in which plague, stone, and darkness had effectively silenced every voice.”

— Albert Camus, The Plague, Share via Whatsapp

“The sun loves the moon so much that he dies every night to let her breathe, and in return, she reflects his love.”

— Jeffrey Fry, Distilled Thoughts, Share via Whatsapp

“A cool breeze stirred my hair at that moment, as the night wind began to come down from the hills, but it felt like a breath from another world.”

— Francis Marion Crawford, For the Blood is the Life and Other Stories, Share via Whatsapp

“The summer demands and takes away too much. /But night, the reserved, the reticent, gives more than it takes”

— John Ashbery, Self-Portrait in a Convex Mirror, Share via Whatsapp

“I got a statistic for you right now. Grab your pencil, Doug. There are five billion trees in the world. I looked it up. Under every tree is a shadow, right? So, then, what makes night? I ll tell you: shadows crawling out from under five billion trees! Think of it! Shadows running around in the air, muddying the waters you might say. If only we could figure a way to keep those darn five billion shadows under those trees, we could stay up half the night, Doug, because there d be no night!”

— Ray Bradbury, Dandelion Wine, Share via Whatsapp

“Il était tard; ainsi qu une médaille neuve La pleine lune s étalait, Et la solennité de la nuit, comme un fleuve Sur Paris dormant ruisselait.”

— Charles Baudelaire, Les Fleurs du Mal, Share via Whatsapp