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T Quotes

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All T Quotes

“The night was at her disposal. She might walk back to Great Mop and arrive very late; or she might sleep out and not trouble to arrive till to-morrow. Whichever she did Mrs Leak would not mind. That was one of the advantages of dealing with witches; they do not mind if you are a little odd in your ways, frown if you are late for meals, fret if you are out all night, pry and commiserate when at length you return. Lovely to be with people who prefer their thoughts to yours, lovely to live at your own sweet will, lovely to sleep out all night!”

“the night was beginning and i was standing before the plate glass window of a restaurant and in that window was a roasted pig, eyeless, with an apple in its mouth. poort damned pig. poor damned me. beyond the pig inside there were people sitting at tables talking, eating, drinking i was not one of those people i felt a kinship with the pig we had been caught in the wrong place at the wrong time i imagined myself in the window eyeless, roasted, the apple in my mouth … i walked away from the window i walked to my room i still had a room as i walked to my room i began to conjecture: could i eat some paper? some newspaper? roaches? maybe i could catch a rat? a raw rat? peel off the fur, remove the intestines remove the eyes forego the head, the tail … i walked along. i was so hungry that everything looked eatable: people, fireplugs, asphalt, wristwatches … my belt, my shirt … i sat in a chair i din’t turn on the light i sat there and wondered if i was crazy because i wasn’t doing anything to help myself the hunger stopped then and i just sat there then i heard it: two people in the next room copulating. i could hear the bed spring and the moans i got up, walked out of the room and back into the street. but i walked in a different direction this time i walked away from the pig in the window but i thought about the pig and i decided that i’d die first rather than eat that pig. it began to rain i looked up. i opened my mouth and let in the rain drops… soup from the sky...”

“The night was clear and frosty, all ebony of shadow and silver of snowy slope; big stars were shining over the silent fields; here and there the dark pointed firs stood up with snow powdering their branches and the wind whistling through them.”

“The night was cold and gloomy. He entered the Park by the first gate and walked along under the gaunt trees. He walked through the bleak alleys where they had walked four years before. She seemed to be near him in the darkness. At moments he seemed to feel her voice touch his ear, her hand touch his. He stood still to listen. Why had he withheld life from her? Why had he sentenced her to death? He felt his moral nature falling to pieces.”

“The night was dark, and a cold wind blew, driving the clouds, furiously and fast, before it. There was one black, gloomy mass that seemed to follow him: not hurrying in the wild chase with the others, but lingering sullenly behind, and gliding darkly and stealthily on. He often looked back at this, and, more than once, stopped to let it pass over; but, somehow, when he went forward again, it was still behind him, coming mournfully and slowly up, like a shadowy funeral train.”

“The night was waiting for me as always. And my thirst could wait no longer. I stood for a moment, head thrown back, eyes closed, and mouth open, feeling that thirst, and wanting to roar like a hungry beast. Yes, blood again when there is nothing else. When the world seems in all its beauty to be empty and heartless and I myself am utterly lost. Give me my old friend, death, and the blood that rushes with it. The Vampire Lestat is here, and he thirsts, and tonight of all nights, he will not be denied.”

“The Night Watchman by Stewart Stafford Does the night watchman watch the night or does the night watch him? Is there anything in the darkness or is his eyesight growing dim? Does a beast growl in the shadows or is his stomach requesting food? Is his pay adequate compensation or is his boss just being rude? As he prays for the sunrise, does anyone hear his prayers? When he clocks out for breakfast, is anyone standing there? Does he creep home to his bed to count the hours down? Until he sits staring at the darkness once more with a quizzical and resigned frown? © Stewart Stafford, 2021. All rights reserved.”

“The Night When Fear Strays by Stewart Stafford Each Hallowtide, all monstrous shapes do quail, No balm for wounded wretches feeling frail, Spectators as charlatan mortals filch frights, Appropriated skins on haunted nights. With bonfire’s glow ablaze in dauntless eyes, Children’s fun quelled by strangest sighs, A hulking shape, once fierce, wails tainted, Its fearful gaze in phantom mists attainted. Small, tender hands caressed its sodden fur, A trembling growl betrayed its lonesome blur, “Peace, gentle shade, what sorrow stirs unfed?” “November’s dawn shall call me home,” it said. Their kindly-shared oat cakes eased its pangs, A webbed claw from veiled night to munching fangs, It feasted with a hunger born of striven years alone, Stroked the child’s cheek for the kindness shown. When parents called, it whispered, soft and torn, “At midnight’s knell, this thicket heralds morn— Go, kindred babes, I’ll linger in this glade. Each Halloween, I’ll mourn my fear remade.” © 2025, Stewart Stafford. All rights reserved.”

“The nightingale waits for a song to go along,Ily sang. It was a bittersweet aria, whose story Ilaria had mastered sharing with not only her voice, but also with the expressions on her face, the movements of her arms, and the carefully choreographed blocking she performed as she crossed one side of the room to the other. Yet tonight, something was off. Her tone carried more melancholy than usual, and the tempo she led was a beat slower than when they'd practiced. Chia doubted anyone would notice. Ily's pride was in her coloratura, and every moment was still magnificent---each note in the impressive cascades attacked with vim and beauty---as if she were truly a bird chirping. But behind the technical difficulties of the piece, Ily managed to slow her musicality and bring emotion to her voice; that was what cast a spell over everyone who listened.”

“The nightmare of censorship has always cast a shadow over my thoughts. Both under the previous state and under the Islamic state, I have said again and again that, when there is an apparatus for censorship that filters all writing, an apparatus comes into being in every writer's mind that says: "Don't write this, they won't allow it to be published." But the true writer must ignore these murmurings. The true writer must write. In the end, it will be published one day, on the condition that the writer writes the truth and does not dissemble.”