Nightbirde Quotes

No more words. In the name of this place we drink in with our breathing, stay quiet like a flower. So the nightbirds will start singing.

There was no sound but it own for falls and the crackling of the flames behind us. No rustle came from the trees, no insect buzz or nightbird call. The woods were sent in their grief.

... some wounds refuse the remedy of time.

I just stored up my hurts, as if they were a tower made of fallen stars, invisible to most people, but brightly burning inside of me.

And as if he had read her thoughts, the old man murmured, 'What a blessing it is to die in your own bed, under your own roof, with your family surrounding you, full of the knowledge that you have lived as thoroughly as you wanted to.

Blessed is the nightbird that sings for joy and not to be heard,

He felt, though, that if love was the desire to possess someone, it was in reality the poor substance of self-love. It seemed to him that a greater, truer love was the desire to open a cage - be it made of iron bars or the bones of tormented injustice - and set the nightbird free.

As the still ocean paths before the shark in starred and glittering waterways, beauty-high, the moon-swathed trees divided, pair on pair, while flapping nightbirds cried across the air.

Mean people are meaningless.

You can’t wait until life isn’t hard anymore before you decide to be happy.

Love. What was it, really? The desire to possess someone, or the desire to free them?

Sounds of four o’clock in the morning come to him through the window: the swish of a sprinkler on the lawn, broken cries of alarm from a parked car that can no longer bear its loneliness, the low weeping of a man in the next-door apartment, on the other side of the wall, the shriek of a nightbird nearby that can perhaps already see what is hidden from you and me.

It had been a joyful day for frogs and mud hens. For the human breed, however, the low gray clouds and chill rain coiled chains around the soul.

Matthew fell on his belly, the pain in his ribs making him curl up like a stomped worm.

He lit a candle, as the morning was so caliginous,

Because of that, there was something frightening about it … something wild and uncontrollable, something that would not be constrained by logic.

Night fell long and cool through the woods about him and a spectral quietude set in. As if something were about that crickets and nightbirds held in dread.

It was a miracle to live as birds do, except for one thing: anyone seen in flight would surely be captured, perhaps even shot down like a crow flying above a cornfield. It's always dangerous to be different, to appear as a monster in most people's eyes, even from a distance.

The evening crept up, as evenings will. In the fading purple twilight, with the last bold artist's stroke of red sun painting the bellies of clouds across the western horizon, Matthew took a lantern and went walking.

There was a small noise—a snake’s hiss, perhaps—and the cup clamped tightly as the heated air within compressed itself. An instant after the hideous contact was made, Woodward cried out around the sassafras root and his body shivered in a spasm of pure, animal pain.

The atmosphere in Nightbirds was ever five minutes after a big argument and no one telling you what happened. Everyone in their neutral corners replaying KO’s and low blows and devising too-late parries. You didn’t know what it had been about or who’d won, just that nobody wanted to talk about it, they glance around and knead grudges in their fists.

into the cell, put the basket down upon the magistrate’s

It was after dark when the woods were most filled with magic, when there were fireflies and the mist was rising from the streams.

veritable

the paradox of Man was the fact that one might have been made in the image of God, yet it was often the most devilish of ideas that gave action and purpose to the human breed. He

I just stored up my hurts, as if they were a tower made of fallen stars, invisible to most people, but brightly burning inside of me.

she has a knife for a tongue,” Cherise interrupted, still eating with graceless fingers. “She only apologizes when it cuts herself.

caliginous,

Why?" A great question had been asked, Matthew thought. The ultimate question, which might be asked only by explorers who would not return to share their knowledge of a new world.

It's easier to hide a thing no one can see.

He was just a boy following the wrong star. Now he won’t ever have a chance to find another.

But it’s as if the glass has broken, and her city is spilling out between her fingers.

It was an emotion, perhaps, that defied examination and could not be shaped to fit into any foursquare box of reason.

Tell me. What is the point of life, if truth is not worth standing up for? If justice is a hollow shell? If beauty and grace are burnt to ashes, and evil rejoices in the flames? Shall I weep on that day, and lose my mind, or join the rejoicing and lose my soul? Shall I sit in my room? Should I go for a long walk, but where might I go so as not to smell the smoke? Should I just go on, Mrs. Nettles, like everyone else?

I shook with cold and fear, without being able to answer. After a lapse of some moments, I was again called. I made an effort to speak, and then felt the bandage which wrapped me from head to foot. It was my shroud. At last, I managed feebly to articulate, 'Who calls?' 'Tis I' said a voice. 'Who art thou?' 'I! I! I!' was the answer; and the voice grew weaker, as if it was lost in the distance; or as if it was but the icy rustle of the trees. A third time my name sounded on my ears; but now it seemed to run from tree to tree, as if it whistled in each dead branch; so that the entire cemetery repeated it with a dull sound. Then I heard a noise of wings, as if my name, pronounced in the silence, had suddenly awakened a troop of nightbirds. My hands, as if by some mysterious power, sought my face. In silence I undid the shroud which bound me, and tried to see. It seemed as if I had awakened from a long sleep. I was cold. I then recalled the dread fear which oppressed me, and the mournful images by which I was surrounded. The trees had no longer any leaves upon them, and seemed to stretch forth their bare branches like huge spectres! A single ray of moonlight which shone forth, showed me a long row of tombs, forming an horizon around me, and seeming like the steps which might lead to Heaven. All the vague voices of the night, which seemed to preside at my awakening, were full of terror. ("The Dead Man's Story")

Something inside him seemed molten, like blue-flamed glass being changed and reshaped by the power of a breath. It was both strengthening and weakening, thrilling and frightening—again that conjunction of God and Devil that seemed to be at the essence of all things.

Everyone goes on, " he repeated, with a taint of bitter mockery. "Oh, yes. They go on. With crippled spirits and broken ideals, they do go on. And with the passage of years they forget what crippled and broke them. They accept it grandly as they grow older, as if crippling and breaking were gifts from a king. Then those same hopeful spirits and large ideals in younger souls are viewed as stupid, and petty… and things to be crippled and broken, because everyone does go on." He looked into the woman's eyes. "Tell me. What is the point of life, if truth is not worth standing up for? If justice is a hollow shell? If beauty and grace are burnt to ashes, and evil rejoices in the flames? Shall I weep on that day, and lose my mind, or join the rejoicing and lose my soul? Shall I sit in my room? Should I go for a long walk, but where might I go so as not to smell the smoke? Should I just go on, Mrs. Nettles, like everyone else?

He had made tiny pipes of feathers he had found along the streets; birds answered him here as they had in the hinterlands. A night-bird, singing back to his playing, showed him the loose bar in the iron fence, the furrowed earth along which the bar swung sideways, that told him, as the bird did, that others came here secretly. Around him, the sleeping city dreamed, tossed fretfully, muttered, dreamed again.

You'll recover. Ever'one goes on, as they must." "Everyone goes on, " he repeated, with a taint of bitter mockery. "Oh, yes. They go on. With crippled spirits and broken ideals, they do go on. And with the passage of years they forget what crippled and broke them. They accept it grandly as they grow older, as if crippling and breaking were gifts from a king. Then those same hopeful spirits and large ideals in younger souls are viewed as stupid, and petty... and things to be crippled and broken, because everyone does go on.

In the vampire miniseries finale, the gates of Hell are wide open. Hungry zombies attack the hotel, Nightbird, at the cemetery when guests arrive to celebrate the Battle of Lexington that took place in 1775. Outside the hotel’s perimeters, heavily armed ATU agents try to stop the zombie invasion. With the party going on, many innocent lives are at stake. Sybil and her friends from Nightbird and the ATU knows that there’s only one way to close the gates of Hell. She needs to destroy the book of the dead, AKA The Necronomicon before it's too late . . .

The freshly painted logo above the hotel spelled “Nightbird.” A delicate smile played on Sybil’s face, all the time she was thinking, Why hide our identity? No one knows the true meaning of Nightbird. Then her face got serious as her glance moved to the clock on the wall above the main entrance before she hailed the first couple. It was almost five. She curtsied to welcome the man and wife, who were in their sixties. “Welcome to Nightbird,” she greeted. “You’re our first guests. I’m pleased to see you’re dressed for the occasion,” Sybil noted, referring to the woman’s green dress and her partner’s black costume.

As the pictures appeared on the screen, Vanessa glanced at the live footage from the CCTV cameras installed around Nightbird. Five minutes ago, she’d finished the installation of facial recognition software on the computer and had it set up to recognize vampire Sally Hawley among the guests, in case she’d show up.

Jack Hunter was near the entrance of Nightbird when a signal rang in his earpiece. An ATU operator called him by phone. “Jack? It’s hard to believe, but a number of zombies are coming our way,” the operator warned.

The sound of breaking glass caught Sybil’s attention. She glanced over her shoulder. Three, or maybe four zombies had managed to enter Nightbird. Heat flushed through her body. She narrowed her eyes. In the background, an explosion shook the ground. Dirt rained down, followed by heat—Jack had just used C-4 to blow up a car. Six zombies were on fire. She decided not to stick around.

She was fire and desire; she wanted the somber, wise nightbirds of ashwatha trees and the bitter dark greens of their leaves.She wanted to fall in love and be where the peacocks danced frighteningly mad, endlessly passionate. She was a stormcloud, her soul awakened in firesongs but all around her, the world was gentling as spring continued sweetly and onwards to the pomegranate groves.

How could the love between Thee and me sever? As the leaf of the lotus abides on the water: so thou art my Lord, and I am Thy servant. As the night-bird Chakor gazes all night at the moon: so Thou art my Lord and I am Thy servant. From the beginning until the ending of time, there is love between Thee and me; and how shall such love be extinguished? Kabir says: “As the river enters into the ocean, so my heart touches Thee.

if she has been called a woman of the town, a tart, a bawd, a wanton, a bawdy-basket, a bird-of-the-game, a bit of stuff, a buttered bun, a cockatrice, a cock-chafer, a cow, a crack, a cunt, a daughter of Eve, a gay-girl, a gobble-prick, a high-flyer, a high-roller, a hussy, a hurry-whore, a jill, a jude, a judy, a jug, laced mutton, lift-skirts, light o’ love, merry legs, minx, moll, moonlighter, morsel, mutton-broker, mount, nestcock, night-bird, night-piece, night-walker, nymph of darkness, nymph of the pavement, petticoat, pick-up, piece, pillow-mate, pinch-prick, pole-climber, prancer, quail, quiet mouse, or even Queen—it is not surprising. A woman of lively parts is as likely to be slandered as she is to be praised.

She brought over a freshly brewed cup of black orchid tea and sat across from me. The tea was especially fragrant. From that day on, it was my favorite. The scent reminded me of rainy days and libraries and a jumble of gardens where there were flowers in bloom.

There were nearly as many frogs in the shallows, where lily pads floated. Some water lily flowers were white and some were yellow and some were the palest pink. Dragonflies darted above the water, their iridescent wings catching the glint of the sunlight.

He felt, though, that if love was the desire to possess someone, it was in reality the poor substance of self-love. It seemed to him that a greater, truer love was the desire to open a cage—be it made of iron bars or the bones of tormented injustice—and set the nightbird free.

Just as seasons and centuries must turn, so too must men—the bad and the good, equal in their frailty of flesh—pass away from this earth. He heard a nightbird singing. Out there. Out in one of the trees that stood around the pond. It was a noontime song, and presently it was joined by a second. For their kind, Matthew mused, night was not a time of sad longing, loneliness, and fear. For them the night was but a further opportunity to sing. And such a sweetness in it, to hear these notes trilled as the land slept, as the stars hummed in the immense velvet black. Such a sweetness, to realize that even at this darkest hour there was yet joy to be known.

It's still horrible to wish the worst on anyone. I'm sure she had her reasons. Maybe people hurt her feelings, the same way I was hurt. A single word can feel like a rock being thrown at you.

I heard a bitterness that hadn't been there before. Something was changing inside him. He'd had enough of following the rules.

James had a theory about caged birds, one he hoped to prove when he became a scientist someday. He believed that all birds that had their freedom taken from them eventually lost their voices. Once that happened, they could never find their true song.

He was withdrawing. I think it was getting harder for him to accept his fate. Like a bird in a cage, he grew silent.

I'm trying to find someone who doesn't want to be found." "That can be as hard as looking for a shadow.

There was once a merchant. An eager, industrious young man. His business … required him to rise early and thus to bed early. But one evening … he stayed awake past his usual hour … and in so doing he heard the wondrous singing of something he’d never heard before: a nightbird. The next night, he managed to stay awake later … to hear more of the bird’s song. And the following night. He became so … so intoxicated with the nightbird’s voice that he thought only of it during the day. Came the time when he spent all the night listening to that song. Could not carry out his business during the sunlit hours. Soon he turned his back altogether on the day, and gave himself over to the nightbird’s beautiful voice … much to the sad end of his career, his health … eventually his life.

He gave Matthew a piercing stare. “It is not enough to love the nightbird’s song. One must also love the nightbird. And … one must eventually fall in love with the night itself.

You know its point. A parable, yes, but there’s great truth and warning in it.” He gave Matthew a piercing stare. “It is not enough to love the nightbird’s song. One must also love the nightbird. And … one must eventually fall in love with the night itself.

He did believe that the magistrate had entered the almshouse searching for a son. How it must agonize Woodward now, to think he might lose another one to the corruption of circumstance. But as much as Matthew felt for the magistrate, he would not—could not—turn away from Rachel. He might be a substitute for a son, yes … but he was also a man, and he must do what he thought to be the correct thing. Which meant fighting to prove her innocence, right up to the moment of her execution. Nightbird or not, she had indeed spoken to him. He heard her even now, suffering in the darkness of her cage. What was he going to do tomorrow, when the magistrate asked him to prepare the decree of death and sign it as

A nightbird sings sweetly from its perch, the sound so incongruous to the tension humming between us.

Things do need to change - Sayer can see that. She might even believe that she should have a hand in changing them. But she isn't going to do it in plain sight, with all of Simta watching. She is going to be a knife in the dark.

You can’t wait until life isn’t hard anymore, before you decide to be happy.

Matilde's life is a thousand layers of secrets. Some live under her skin, conjured up when she needs them. A flicker in her palm, a pair of smoldering wings. Others are buried deep: her fears, her aches, her uncertainties. She hides them all behind a mask she can't take off.

Nightbirde, who received Simon Cowell’s golden buzzer on “AGT,” died at age 31 following a four-year battle with cancer. Our hearts go out to her family…

Nightbirde "You can't wait until life isn't hard anymore before you decide to be happy.

Wave to wave, we ride together

In ancient times, it’s said, Eudea was filled with winged creatures. Wrathful dragons, fiery phoenixes, mighty griffins, and graceful pegasi. They were coveted: After all, who amongst us hasn’t dreamed of flying? Many reached for them with hand and rope and spear, wanting to claim their power, to own it. But winged creatures cannot bear the weight of chains.

from Edinburgh to the wilderness of Scotland’s west coast, and it was growing dark as they turned off the tiny road to bump along the drive of Arisaig House. The grey stone building, glimpsed between a phalanx of tall pines, with its blacked-out windows, and the dark hills rising steeply behind it, looked somewhat forbidding to Ella as she peered out through the window. She craned her neck to look up at the clock tower that stood sentry on one side of the courtyard, its gilded hands pointing towards eleven o’clock. As the truck drew to a halt, silence fell, broken only by the ticking of the cooling engine and the faint, plaintive cry of a nightbird from the seashore somewhere below them. A door opened, throwing a rectangle of light across the gravel, and Ella

Mrs. Farrell told me that no man was a monster, not even Heathcliff, and that most people’s misdeeds were rooted in the treatment they’d received in the world.

I’d lived my whole life without a friend. I’d just have to remember how to do that again.

I had made the decision to stick with life as I knew it, which meant I was alone. But at least I wasn’t dumped or betrayed.

Sometimes you think you know what’s going to happen next, and then the world surprises you,

From then on, I didn’t cry when I was disappointed. I just stored up my hurts, as if they were a tower made of fallen stars, invisible to most people, but brightly burning inside of me.

It’s easy to keep to yourself if you hang back and always sit in the last row and slip around corners as if you were a ghost.

During my early youth I carried all my earthly goods in my pants and coat pockets, that is when I had a coat, because I had to be ready to travel at any hour no matter where I happened to be, mostly on account of merciless truant officers. Since then, having become in the meantime well-to-do, I carried all my earthly riches in that shaky cardboard box. It makes you wonderfully independent. Even had these good men not asked for it, even had they not so highly solicited my medical knowledge, I would still have taken the medicine box along with me. This I did entirely instinctively and out of long and often very bitter experience. For it had often happened to me in the past that, when I thought of leaving my residence for only one hour, upon regaining full consciousness I discovered that I had landed on a different continent. Through such experiences one learns to become careful, so that toothbrush, shaving kit and a little pocket compass were constantly buttoned up inside my back pants pocket. How would I know where I might land if I flew away with these three nightbirds? ("Midnight Call")

The fundamental basis of an avian reporting system is small, smooth river stones. A bird marks the completion of each assigned task by carrying the stone to its bucket; management, for the birds in charge, becomes little more than a visual scan of the buckets, which easily reveals which birds and even which task groups are ahead and which are falling behind.

Turns out “why?” is the heaviest question to carry. I’ve been wondering what drives us to even ask it. Why do we always expect that there even is a “why?” Where does it come from, the expectation for reason, for explanation, logic, science? I suppose for most things there is a cause and a reason. But if you follow the trail of whys long enough, you’ll always land back on the same set of islands: Because that’s just the way it is. These months have put fractures through me, shaken my bones, shattered open my heart. The miracle about it is that my heart was opened just wide enough to let all the beauty in.

Pay attention to the things you’ll want to remember when all of this is over And always Always Talk about this like it’s something that will someday be over

I am sorry for the canyons I dug around myself When all you have been building are bridges I am sorry for the boulders I have thrown down at you

We don’t get to choose in this life whether or not we suffer But we do get to choose what we are willing to suffer for We can suffer the darkness of a closed heart Or from the wounds welcomed with an open heart The wounds of one that risked the pain that comes with love So I will take the risk of gratefulness Of kindness, and good will, and hope for the best And the leap of believing that I am fully accepted as I am And that I have a place here

Without the mirror to remind me of my body’s weakness I would have looked at my spirit instead And seen that I am becoming invincible

you have been given a plate full of injustice, use it to grow empathy If you have been heaped upon with pain, use it to grow compassion If you have been drowned in reasons to fear, use it to grow courage What we are given is often unfair, but not one of us has a single thing that did not grow from what we have been given You are not a hero for having suffered You are a hero for having grown

At a glance you see the picture, the frame, the nail, and the wall.

There were no easy answers to any question in this world, and it seemed that year after year the questions grew more complicated.

You can't wait until life isn't hard anymore before you decide to be happy.

recollect