Charles Dickens Quotes

The first thing he noticed was how quiet it was. This was nothing like the kind of quiet he heard when he woke up in the middle of the night after a bad dream. When that happened, there were always strange, unidentifiable sounds seeping into his room from the tiny gaps where the windowpanes weren't sealed together correctly. At those moments he could always tell there was life outside, even if all that life was fast asleep. It was a silence that wasn't silence at all.

Silence and darkness were all I craved. Well, I get a certain amount of both. They being one.

At home, I love reaching out into that absolute silence, when you can hear the owl or the wind.

No one but Night, with tears on her dark face, watches beside me in this windy place.

Your solitude will expand and become a place where you can live in the twilight, where the noise of other people passes, far in the distance.

Now entertain conjecture of a time When creeping murmur and the poring dark Fills the wide vessel of the universe.

I have only one confidant, and that is the silence of night.

After a run of several night events, you begin to appreciate the solitude and the quiet backstage.

See, the night doth enfold us! See, all the world lies sleeping!

All silence is. All emptiness. And now: The dawn.

The moon is setand the Pleiades; Middle ofthe night, time passes by,I lie alone.

Silence is like nightfall. Objects are lost in it insensibly.

There was just one moon. That familiar, yellow, solitary moon. The same moon that silently floated over fields of pampas grass, the moon that rose--a gleaming, round saucer--over the calm surface of lakes, that tranquilly beamed down on the rooftops of fast-asleep houses. The same moon that brought the high tide to shore, that softly shone on the fur of animals and enveloped and protected travelers at night. The moon that, as a crescent, shaved slivers from the soul--or, as a new moon, silently bathed the earth in its own loneliness. THAT moon.

And what does the rain say at night in a small town, what does the rain have to say? Who walks beneath dripping melancholy branches listening to the rain? Who is there in the rain’s million-needled blurring splash, listening to the grave music of the rain at night, September rain, September rain, so dark and soft? Who is there listening to steady level roaring rain all around, brooding and listening and waiting, in the rain-washed, rain-twinkled dark of night?

He got right down in the dark between heartbeats, and rested there. And then he saw that another one wasn't going to come. That's it. That's the last. He looked at the dark. I would like to take this opportunity, he said, to pray for another human being.

Time moves in it special way in the middle of the night.

We wake in the night, to stereophonic silence.

He's stuck at 3:14 a.m. with only the moon to talk to.

He could not feel her near him in the darkness nor hear her voice touch his ear. He waited for some minutes listening. He could hear nothing: the night was perfectly silent. He listened again: perfectly silent. He felt that he was alone.

But some nights, I must tell you, I go down there after everyone has fallen asleep. I swim back and forth in the echoing blackness. I sing a love song as well as I can, lost for a while in the home of the rain.

Writers are often alone when they work. Hours pass in silence as one long moment; light fades as day turns back to face the coming night.

I aspire only to silence.

For sleep, one needs endless depths of blackness to sink into; daylight is too shallow, it will not cover one.