“There is a night that never comes to an end....The clock of the world turns under its own shadow. Midnight is a moving place, hurtling around the planet at a thousand miles an hour like a dark knike, cutting slices of daily bread off the endless loaf of Time.”

“I thought the most beautiful thing in the world must be shadow, the million moving shapes and cul-de-sacs of shadow. There was shadow in bureau drawers and closets and suitcases, and shadow under houses and trees and stones, and shadow at the back of people's eyes and smiles, and shadow, miles and miles and miles of it, on the night side of the earth.”

“Tonight’s December thirty-first,Something is about to burst.The clock is crouching, dark and small,Like a time bomb in the hall.Hark, it's midnight, children dear.Duck! Here comes another year!”

“I cut a loaf of bread, and there wasn't any bread, Is this an omen?”

“She knows what it means. Oh, wonderfully bright at 6 a.m., yes, wonderfully clear for an hour. But the shorter the days, the longer the nights, the darker the house, the easier it is, the easier it is, the easier it is, to mistake a shadow for the writing on the wall, the sound of overland footsteps for the distant crack of thunder, and the midnight chime of a New Year clock for the bell that tolls the end of the world.”

“I saw Eternity the other night,Like a great ring of pure and endless light,All calm, as it was bright,And round beneath it, Time, in hours, days, years,Driven by the spheres,Like a vast shadow moved, in which the worldAnd all her train were hurled.”