#night

The night sky is only a sort of carbon paper, Blueblack, with the much-poked periods of stars Letting in the light, peephole after peephole--- A bonewhite light, like death, behind all things. ↗

— Sylvia Plath

#light #night #poetry #stars #death

War is like night, she said. It covers everything. ↗

— Elie Wiesel

#night #war #death

The worm doth woo the mortal, death claims a living bride, Night unto day is married, morn unto eventide, Earth a merry damsel, and heaven a knight so true, And Earth is quite coquettish, and beseemeth in vain to sue. ↗

— Emily Dickinson

#inspirational #knight #love #married #poetry

You have to be very deep to be dead, he thought, and I'm not. He began to have some concept of forever, and his mind shivered as his body had when he had wakened in the cold nights and thrust his hands between his thighs to keep warm. It will be a long night, he thought. ↗

— Peter S. Beagle

#death #forever #night #death

And here face down beneath the sun And here upon earth's noonward height To feel the always coming on The always rising of the night ↗

— Archibald MacLeish

#death #night #poem #poet #poetry

To go to bed at night in Madrid marks you as a little queer. For a long time your friends will be a little uncomfortable about it. Nobody goes to bed in Madrid until they have killed the night. Appointments with a friend are habitually made for after midnight at the cafe. ↗

— Ernest Hemingway

#night #sleeping-at-night #death

After that there was silence for a while, only the sound of the shovel biting into the earth and the hissing splatter of the loose dirt. They stood him up, his back to the well. In the dark, desperate sky, just above the scalloped line the treetops made, three stars formed a pleading little constellation. No one looked at them, no one cared. This was the time for death, not the time for mercy. ("The Number's Up") ↗

— Cornell Woolrich

#death #night #night-sky #sky #death

Overnight I became a cottage industry. ↗

— Jean Harris

#cottage #i #industry #overnight

Nothing would surprise him. Nothing could anymore. But it didn’t matter. Even if it meant the most painful, hideous death a human being had ever experienced, they weren’t getting the baby, and they weren’t getting her. Twenty yards… He gripped the handle of his sword tightly…​breathed deep of the desert air. Okay, Balthazar…let’s die. ↗

— Seth Grahame-Smith

#death

Woolrich had a genius for creating types of story perfectly consonant with his world: the noir cop story, the clock race story, the waking nightmare, the oscillation thriller, the headlong through the night story, the annihilation story, the last hours story. These situations, and variations on them, and others like them, are paradigms of our position in the world as Woolrich sees it. His mastery of suspense, his genius (like that of his spiritual brother Alfred Hitchcock) for keeping us on the edge of our seats and gasping with fright, stems not only from the nightmarish situations he conjured up but from his prose, which is compulsively readable, cinematically vivid, high-strung almost to the point of hysteria, forcing us into the skins of the hunted and doomed where we live their agonies and die with them a thousand small deaths. ↗

— Francis M. Nevins

#cornell-woolrich #doomed #hunted #hysteria #nightmarish