Nightshirt Quotes & Sayings

She was talking to a tree. Just talking to a tree. Totally normal. People probably did it every day here. They're only trees. She fought an insane urge to laugh. — Ruth Frances Long

Galder Weatherwax, Supreme Grand Conjuror of the Order of the Silver Star, Lord Imperial of the Sacred Staff, Eighth Level Ipsissimus and 304th Chancellor of Unseen University, wasn't simply an impressive sight even in his red nightshirt with the hand-embroidered mystic runes, even in his long cap with the bobble on, even with the Wee Willie Winkie candlestick in his hand. He even managed to very nearly pull it off in fluffy pompom slippers as — Terry Pratchett

What the hell are you going here?" He clutched the bedsheet, holding it level with his neck.
"Isn't it obvious?"
"I hope not."
"I'm here to see the lavender nightshirt. — Tessa Dare

For a long while we just stood there, looking down at the profound and fleshless grin. The body had apparently once lain in the attitude of an embrace, but now the long sleep that outlasts love, that conquers even the
grimace of love, had cuckolded him. What was left of him, rotted beneath what was left of the nightshirt, had become inextricable from the bed in which he lay; and upon him and upon the pillow beside him lay that even coating of the patient and biding dust.
Then we noticed that in the second pillow was the indentation of a head. One of us lifted something from it, and leaning forward, that faint and invisible dust dry and acrid in the nostrils, we saw a long strand of iron-grey hair. — William Faulkner

She's got a man's nightshirt on and stockings with holes in them. Somebody else's tie, a gold and green chevroned number, hangs around her neck and just at this moment it looks like a king's mantle draped over her shoulders. Her hair's all loose, her lipstick and eyeliner gone a-roving. She's got a cigar in one hand and a jar full of gin in the other, and she's laughing, laughing like for once that damned chicken crossed the road for something really good. — Catherynne M Valente

Corporal Carrot, Ankh-Morpork City Guard (Night Watch), sat down in his nightshirt, took up his pencil, sucked the end for a moment, and then wrote: — Anonymous

Here at any rate is Ignatius Reilly, without progenitor in any literature I know of - slob extraordinary, a mad Oliver Hardy, a fat Don Quixote, a perverse Thomas Aquinas rolled into one - who is in violent revolt against the entire modern age, lying in his flannel nightshirt, in a back bedroom on Constantinople Street in New Orleans, who between gigantic seizures of flatulence and eructations is filling dozens of Big Chief tablets with invective. — John Kennedy Toole

- You look fine.
- Right. I look fine. Except I don't, said Zora, tugging sadly at her man's nightshirt. This was why Kiki had dreaded having girls: she knew she wouldn't be able to protect them from self-disgust. — Zadie Smith

Jem touched the parabatai rune on his shoulder, through the thin material of his nightshirt. "I am not alone," he said. "Wherever we are, we are as one. — Cassandra Clare

You need to fall in love with yourself before you can fall in love with someone else. — Scott Hildreth

Do not read so much, look about you and think of what you see there. — Richard P. Feynman

The science-fictional motif of lethal, infectious information - bad memes - is a fascinating one, with an extended history. One of the earliest instances is Robert W. Chambers's 'The King in Yellow' from 1895. Chambers's conceit is a malevolent play: read beyond Act II, and you go mad. — Paul Di Filippo

No one had much faith in me because I was so young. They imagined a little brat with a flash-in-the-pan single. It was inevitable ... Thankfully, I proved people wrong. — Billie Piper

Suddenly I'm all alone in the world. I see all this from the summit of a mental rooftop. I'm alone in the world. To see is to be distant. To see clearly is to halt. To analyze is to be foreign. No one who passes by touches me. Around me there is only air. I'm so isolated I can feel the distance between me and my suit. I'm a child in a nightshirt carrying a dimly lit candle and traversing a huge empty house. — Fernando Pessoa

The shoes always tell the story,' said the shoe poet.
'Not always,' I countered.
'Yes, always. Your boots, they are expensive, well made. That tells me that you come from a wealthy family. But the style is one made for and older woman. That tell me they probably belong to your mother. A mother sacrificed her boots for her daughter. That tells me you are loved, my dear. And your mother is not here, so that tells me that you are sad, my dear. The shoes tell the story. — Ruta Sepetys

Cal shrugged. "That's one word for it. I'm not all that thrilled with it either."
I pushed the covers off and got out of bed, making sure my nightshirt didn't ride up. "Cal, I already have to deal with an angry dad today. Please don't pull some macho "bethrothed" thing on top of it, okay?"
He caught my wrirst. "I'm not. And it's not you I'm pissed at. It's them. They shouldn't have taken you there."
His hand was warm on my skin. — Rachel Hawkins

The longest journey you'll ever make is the journey from the head to the heart — Lissa Rankin

Claire started to unbutton her blouse and looked over her shoulder at Sam, who tried to discreetly sneak a peek at her. She reached down to the bed and picked up the nightshirt the hotel staff provided, per Lacy's request, an extra-large white cotton T-shirt sporting the hotel's name and logo in classy gray lettering.
They also provided a pair of gray cotton boxers for Sam. He picked them up. "Not bad. They really thought of everything, huh?"
"Yes, it was very thoughtful of Lacy. We won't have to sleep in our clothes," Claire agreed on her way to the bathroom to change.
"Or in the buff, which wouldn't be such a bad thing," Sam said in a low voice.
"I heard that, Sam," Claire yelled from the bathroom.
"Wouldn't be such a bad thing." Sam called back.
"That remains to be seen." She giggled.
"Yeah, well you can't blame a guy for trying. — Carolyn Gibbs

If you are feeling more yourself, there is a problem best addressed immediately," said the queen.
"In my nightshirt?" The king wriggled, as ever, out of straightforward obedience.
"Your attendants. I have spoken to them. You will speak to them as well."
"Ah. They have seen me in my nightshirt." He looked down at his sleeve, embroidered with white flowers. "Not in your nightshirt, though. — Megan Whalen Turner

As a group, attachment-challenged children need to be looked at differently. This is a group of children who have experiences and fears of being separated from parent figures. Until they can rebuild some of their emotional security, their time in child-care must be restricted. — Deborah D. Gray

Clearly it's not easy for women in modern society, no matter where they live. We still have to go the extra mile to prove that we are equal to men. we have to work longer hours and make more sacrifices. And we must emotionally protect ourselves from unfair, often vicious attacks made on us via the male members of our family. — Benazir Bhutto

I was grounded for all of my childhood. Not most - all. — Megan Fox

Right. I look fine. Except I don't,' said Zora, tugging sadly at her man's nightshirt. This was why Kiki had dreaded having girls: she knew she wouldn't be able to protect them from self-disgust. To that end she had tried banning television in the early years, and never had a lipstick or a woman's magazine crossed the threshold of the Belsey home to Kiki's knowledge, but these and other precautionary measures had made no difference. It was in the air, or so it seemed to Kiki, this hatred of women and their bodies
it seeped in with every draught in the house; people brought it home on their shoes, they breathed it in off their newspapers. There was no way to control it. — Zadie Smith

1:52-53
THE NIGHT VIGIL

Darkness has been given a nightshirt to sleep in (25:47). Remember how human beings were composed from water and dust for blood and flesh with oily resins heated in fire to make a skeleton. Then the soul, the divine light, was breathed into human shapes. The work now is to help our bodies become pure light. It may look like this is not happening. But in a cocoon every bit of worm-dissolving slime becomes silk. As we take in light, each part of us turns to silk.

We made the night a darkness, but we bring shining dawnlight out of that. In the same way the mound of your grave will bloom with resurrection. Sufis and those on the path of the heart use darkness to go within. During the night vigil the universe is theirs (40:16). With all the kings and sultans and their learned counselors asleep, everyone is unemployed, except those wakeful few and the divine presence. — Bahauddin

Are you a girl or a boy?' Liesl was wearing the same thin nightshirt she had been wearing since Tuesday, when her father died, and it occurred to her that if the ghost was a boy, she should cover up.
'Neither,' the ghost replied.
Liesel was startled. 'You have to be one or the other.'
'I don't have to be anything,' the ghost replied, sounding irritated. 'I am what I am and that's all. Things are different on the Other Side, you know. Things are ... blurrier. — Lauren Oliver

Iris is my opposite in all ways small. She loves reality TV, finds movies too long, and only reads when it's for an assignment. Her idea of fun involves a credit card and an open mall, and she has harbored a massive crush on Justin Bieber, despite all his WTFuckery, since her junior year of high school. Her continuing love of The Bieb is evident by the fact that her favorite nightshirt is a My World concert tee. And while the image of his face plastered over her boobs is more than creepy, I hate that she hides the shirt whenever Henry comes around. Or rather, I hate that Henry makes her feel like she should to hide it for fear he'll make fun of her. — Kristen Callihan

If you sell me a horse that throws a shoe, or starts to limp, or spooks at shadows, I will miss a valuable opportunity. A quite unrecoverable opportunity. If that happens, I will not come back and demand a
refund. I will not petition the constable. I will walk back to Imre this very night and set fire to your house.
Then, when you run out the front door in your nightshirt and stockle-cap, I will kill you, cook you, and
eat you. Right there on your lawn while all your neighbors watch. — Patrick Rothfuss

I promised myself I would leave her alone and up until then, I really thought I could. But hearing her laugh and seeing her in her nightshirt did me in. She deserved one last tease. — Veronica Daye

Philip got up and knelt down to say his prayers. It was a cold morning, and he shivered a little; but he had been taught by his uncle that his prayers were more acceptable to God if he said them in his nightshirt than if he waited till he was dressed. This did not surprise him, for he was beginning to realize that he was a creature of a God who appreciated the discomfort of his worshippers. — W. Somerset Maugham

Viktor looked at the older man's nightshirt, robe, and nightcap. His lips quirked into a smile. "The hour is late, and the household sleeps. How is it that you are still awake?"
"I knew you would be knocking on the door sooner or later." Pickles looked down his long nose at him. "You have passed the previous six nights with Her Ladyship."
"You are observant, my good man."
"No, Your Highness, I am the one who locks the door at night." Pickles reached into his robe's pocket and produced a key. He passed it to the prince, saying, "After tonight, let yourself into the
house."
Viktor grinned at the majordomo and lifted the key out of his hand. "Your trust honors me."
"You are unlikely to abscond with the silver," Pickles drawled. — Patricia Grasso

Waiting for the operation, there was a gentle tap on the door.In came a strapping nurse. 'Good morning', she shrilled, whipped back the bedclothes, upped with his nightshirt, grabbed his willy, lathered furiously around it till it looked like the Eddystone Lighthouse in a storm, then shaved the whole area till it looked like an oven-ready chicken.
'Excuse me, nurse', said Looney, 'why did you knock? — Spike Milligan

In the top drawer of my bedside table, there's a small box. It contains everything we need to make our night pleasurable. If you have to, leave everything else behind but bring that box."
She snorted as if in derision - but it was a weak snort. She walked toward the steps again.
"Amy."
She turned back to him. "What?"
"Did you notice I didn't ask for a nightshirt?"
She glanced at his lit in her hand and wondered why he told her that.
Then she knew why.
He had just told her he slept nude.
Every night in the cellar right beneath her bedchamber, his naked body remained at the ready to welcome her. Now that she knew it, she could never escape the image ... or the temptation. — Christina Dodd

I'm not that squeamish, Mr. Stone."
"Ethan," he said. "I'm naked. I'm in a tub. You're wearing my nightshirt. You've already slept in my bed. I think you should call me Ethan. — Jo Goodman

Love was a choice and we made it everyday. — Molly O'Keefe

I thought of my father, alone and elsewhere, his head cradled in his hands. I thought of the day he'd punched a hole straight through the kitchen wall, thinking she'd be tucked away inside. All those places he'd looked and never found. Inside their mattress. In stained-glass windows. How he'd scoured the carpet for her stray hair and strung them all together with a ribbon; how he'd slept with that one lock swathed across his nostrils, hugging a pillow fitted with a nightshirt. How he'd dug up the backyard, stripped and sweating. How he'd played her favorite album on repeat and loud, a lure. How when we took up the carpet in my bedroom to find her, under the carpet was wood. Under the wood there was cracked concrete. Under the concrete there was dirt. Under the dirt there was a cavity of water. I swam down into the water with my nose clenched and lungs burning in my chest but I could not find the bottom and I couldn't see a thing. — Blake Butler

It was that evening, when my mother abdicated her authority, that marked the beginning, along with the slow death of my grandmother, of the decline of my will and of my health. Everything had been decided at the moment when, unable to bear the idea of waiting until the next day to set my lips on my mother's face, I had made my resolution, jumped out of bed, and gone, in my nightshirt, to stay by the window through which the moonlight came, until I heard M. Swann go. My parents having gone with him, I heard the garden gate open, the bell ring, the gate close again ... — Marcel Proust

He had been taught by his uncle that his prayers were more acceptable to God if he said them in his nightshirt than if he waited till he was dressed. This did not surprise him, for he was beginning to realize that he was the creature of a God who appreciated the discomfort of his worshipers. — W. Somerset Maugham