Moth Quotes

“It's a poem about moths. But it's also a poem about psychopaths.
I get it copied. And stick it in a frame.

And now it glowers redoubtably above my desk:an entomological keepsake of the horizons of existence.

And the brutal, star-crossed wisdom of those who seek them out.

i was talking to a moth
the other evening
he was trying to break into
an electric bulb
and fry himself on the wires

why do you fellows
pull this stunt i asked him
because it is the conventional
thing for moths or why
if that had been an uncovered
candle instead of an electric
light bulb you would
now be a small unsightly cinder
have you no sense

plenty of it he answered
but at times we get tired
of using it
we get bored with routine
and crave beauty
and excitement
fire is beautiful
and we know that if we get
too close it will kill us
but what does that matter
it is better to be happy
for a moment
and be burned up with beauty
than to live a long time
and be bored all the while
so we wad all our life up
into one little roll
and then we shoot the roll
that is what life is for
it is better to be part of beauty
our attitude toward life
is come easy go easy
we are like human beings
used to be before they became
too civilized to enjoy themselves

and before i could argue him
out of his philosophy
he went and immolated himself
on a patent cigar lighter
i do not agree with him
myself i would rather have
half the happiness and twice
the longevity

but at the same time i wish
there was something i wanted
as badly as he wanted to fry himself”
― Kevin Dutton, The Wisdom of Psychopaths: What Saints, Spies, and Serial Killers Can Teach Us About Success

“The first time I heard you laugh,
I only wanted to say funny things
so you would always be laughing.
You know what happens to chocolate
when you leave it out in the sun?
I’m that unfortunate chocolate
and you, you are the laughing sun.
For this reason, I am offering myself to you
not as a martyr or some selfless fool,
but as a self-indulgent moth
who actively pursues the light
without much fear for the flame.
The moth who revels in the heat
and declares:
Burn me.”
― Kamand Kojouri

“The moth prefers the moon and detests the sun, while the butterfly loves the sun and hides from the moon. Every living creature responds to light. But depending on the amount of light you have inside, determines which lamp in the sky your heart will swoon.”
― Suzy Kassem, Rise Up and Salute the Sun: The Writings of Suzy Kassem

“The poets say some moths will do anything out of love for a flame
[...]
The moth takes off again, and we both step back, because he's circling at eye level now and seems to have lost rudder control, smacking into the wall on each round. He circles lower and lower, spinning around the candle in tighter revolutions, like a soap sud over an open drain. A few times he seems to touch the flame, but dances off unhurt.
Then he ignites like a ball of hair, curling into an oily puff of fumes with a hiss. The candle flame flickers and dims for a moment, then burns as bright as before.
Moth Smoke Lingers.”
― Mohsin Hamid, Moth Smoke

“And I shall seek you endlessly, for
I am a moth, and you’re my flame

Knowing that I’ll burn at your touch
I return, for you’re a fire; untamed”
― Zubair Ahsan

“A beetle will chase after an opening of light, while a cockroach will scatter at a crack of it. How are we different from insects? Nobody is purely good or purely evil. Most of us are in-between. There are moths that explore the day and butterflies that play at night. Polarity is an integral part of nature — human or not human.”
― Suzy Kassem, Rise Up and Salute the Sun: The Writings of Suzy Kassem

“The Moth and Its Beloved

Ask the moth the beauty of the candle
And it will burn without a confession
There is a secret to its longing
For it feels no fear or hesitation

The moth is too much in love with the flame Yet it does not appear under the sun
For the moon’s light is far too feeble, and
It gave up on its pursuit of the sun

Just a sight of a candle is enough
To remind it of its real beloved
So it settles for that candle in reach,
Revels in its heat, and asks to be burned”
― Zubair Ahsan, Of Endeavours Blue

“And with the clumsy tools of jealousy and desire, he was trying to create the spell that is ethereal and delicate as the dust on a moth's wing”
― F. Scott Fitzgerald, Jacob's Ladder

“I wish to drown in my pain, alone, just like a moth dancing to its death in the flame!”
― Nishta Kochar, Cinnamon Bizarre : Collection of Short Stories

“Being young is like
being a moth, or alive I
bet-possibly:
I am burning, if I am learning any-
thing these days, it is that

The flames you keep touching when you're young,
you keep right ahead on touching when you're older.”
― Will Walton, I Felt a Funeral, In My Brain

“She’s drawn to me just as I’m drawn to her. She can’t keep away. She circles, forced to keep her distance, afraid of abandoning her husband and, even more, her son for too long. But she keeps coming, like a moth to my candle, staying longer than she should, leaving late for dinners and birthday parties, singeing her wings. She’s risking her marriage for me, her family, her reputation.
And I, the moth circling her candle, realize that she’s not just a candle. She’s a moth as well, circling me. I look at her and see myself reflected, my feelings, my desires. And she, looking at me, must see herself. And which of us is moth and which is candle hardly seems to matter. We’re both the same.
That’s the secret.
What moths never tell us as they whirl in their dances.
What Manucci learned at Pak Tea House.
What sufis veil in verse.
I turn her around and look into her eyes and see the wonder in them that must be in mine as well, the wonder I first saw on our night of ecstasy, and I feel myself explode, expand, fill the universe, then collapse, implode like a detonation under water, become tiny, disappear.
I’m hardly aware of myself, of her, when I open my mouth. There is just us, and I speak for us when I speak, and I must be trembling and crying, but I don’t even know if I am or what I’m doing.
I just say it.
“I love you.”
And I lose myself in her eyes and we kiss and I feel myself becoming part of something new, something larger, something I never knew could be.
Union.
There are no words.”
― Mohsin Hamid, Moth Smoke

“When she opened the window, a giant moth blew in. It beat a hasty path to the ceiling light and landed against it with a thunk. “I know the feeling,” Stevie said to it.”
― Maureen Johnson, Truly, Devious

“I’ve always preferred moths to butterflies. They aren’t flashy or cocky; they mind their own business and just try to blend in with their surroundings and live their lives. They don’t want to be seen, and that’s something I can relate to.”
― Kayla Krantz, The OCD Games

“He stalked back to the enormous moth, but it wouldn't return him to Elfhame until he went to a nearby general store, glamoured leaves into money to buy it an entire six-pack of lager, and then poured the booze into a frothing puddle on the ground for the creature to lap at.”
― Holly Black, How the King of Elfhame Learned to Hate Stories

“How little he knew about the rules of this world which he had crashed against so casually, like a moth bumping against a light!”
― L.P. Hartley, Eustace and Hilda

“He hopes the plants doesn't freeze to death before he can give it to her.
He pictures her face when she opens the bag and sees it. A whole load of dark purple flowers stuck onto a tiny bendy stem like a bunch of butterflies about to fly off. Exposed roots like knobbly toes climbing over the rim of the plastic pot as if the whole thing is planning to get out and do a runner first chance it gets. It's a moth orchid.”
― Ella Griffin, The Flower Arrangement

“He hopes the plant doesn't freeze to death before he can give it to her.
He pictures her face when she opens the bag and sees it. A whole load of dark purple flowers stuck onto a tiny bendy stem like a bunch of butterflies about to fly off. Exposed roots like knobbly toes climbing over the rim of the plastic pot as if the whole thing is planning to get out and do a runner first chance it gets. It's a moth orchid.”
― Ella Griffin, The Flower Arrangement

“One day a mayfly said this to a moth drawn to a flame.

"You know that flame is a trap set by humans. It is not like you only have one day to live as I do. Why would you throw yourself at the flame knowing you'll die?"

And so the moth said "the flame is too beautiful not to throw myself at. There is no beauty without pain.”
― Kim Bok Joo

“His cuffs are jewelled, and the moth pin that holds his cloak in place has wings that move on their own.”
― Holly Black, The Wicked King

“The lady laughed a little laugh and said, “A man with a strong body as yours is not capable of doing anything more than showing a few shiny pieces of cloth? Where is the obsession of the moth that hurtles itself into the flame out of devotion?”
“Show me first the wick that burns itself to light the room, Ma’m?”
― Mukta Singh-Zocchi, The Thugs & a Courtesan

“Even up until the final moment of life, bat and moth are linked together forever, through time, and beyond. As a last-gasp evasive maneuver, a fleeing moth will sometimes stop its wingbeats in midflight, thereby ceasing to give off data to the bat's radar. But sometimes the bat will pause, too, so that the moth can't pick up any radar signals-the bat seeming to have disappeared-and for just the briefest of moments they will both hang there, suspended in eternity.”
― Rick Bass, The Sky, The Stars, The Wilderness

“She blew across the moth's back. 'Please,' she whispered to the moth, 'find me what I need to help my sister.'

Its wings shivered. For a moment the black lines seemed to rearrange themselves, forming letters, words, sentences. Then it spread its wings and flew.”
― T. Kingfisher, Nettle & Bone

“The black moth night had come into the sky with his golden-spotted wings all spread.”
― Warwick Deeping, Uther and Igraine

“Like a moth is drawn to the light we are drawn to melancholy, we succumb to it.”
― Ryan Gelpke, Peruvian Nights

“Then she spread the wings of her coat, revealing the shimmering lining. Except he saw it wasn't a coat. It was wings-- huge, brown, beautiful wings, dappled in the street light. Not a bird's wings, but more like the wings of a moth, all silk and starlight spreading out against the smoky London sky. For a moment, she stood there, wings spread; shock-headed, wild-eyed, a thing from a dream.
Then, as Tom watched open-mouthed, she flew off, soundlessly, into the night.”
― Joanne Harris, The Moonlight Market

“There once was a girl of the Moth Folk, dark-winged, strong, and fearless. Her eyes were like the starlit sky; her footfall soft as shadow. And although she was lovely, love had no place in her heart, for hers was the tribe of the Moth King, who had waged a war on love, for ever and ever.
But love, like all forbidden things, was fascinating to her. Every night of the clear full moon, she would go to the Moonlight Market and watch the traders sell their wares: printed books of every kind; pomegranates of the south; wines from the islands; gems from the north; flowers that bloomed only once in their lives. But she only had eyes for the sellers of charms and glamours. Here, there were spells for a broken heart, or to spin dead leaves into gold, or to rekindle a memory, or to summon the western wind. Most of all, there were love spells: tiny bottles of colored glass with stoppers worked in silver filled with potions made from the heart of a rose, or the tail fin of a mermaid. Here were glamours to melt a lover's heart: candles of every color; tokens of remembrance; silk-bound books of poetry.
But among all the love-knots and bonbons and pressed flowers and handkerchiefs, the Moth girl never truly saw the nature of her enemy, for it seemed to her that Love was weak, and simpering, and faithless. She told herself she was too strong to fall for its blandishments. Until one day, at the Market, she saw a boy with a glamorie-glass in his hand, standing by a display of books, and stories, and legends, and memories.”
― Joanne Harris, The Moonlight Market

“She gave a sudden, luminous grin. 'Typical chrysalis,' she said. 'Pretty as peaches. Thick as mince.'
Then she turned and made for the door, looking almost insubstantial in the shadows. Tom watched as she vanished down the steps. And looking down on to the street, he saw her hesitate, and then, finding the street deserted, spread out the skirts of the garment that he'd assumed was a long brown coat...
Except that it wasn't a coat. It was wings-- wings the color of cobweb, and dappled sunlight on water, and rain...
I've seen this before, said a voice in his mind. It came with a fleeting memory-- a voice in the moonlight, the touch of a hand, a scent of smoke and roses. I've seen this before, thought Tom once again, as Charissa flew into the night.
His hand crept into his pocket, where something-- a dead leaf? No, a flower-- seemed to be caught in the lining. With the thought came a memory: of a moon like a Christmas bauble; a kiss as light as a moth's wing; a long-necked guitar that fell from a bridge into the moonlit water.
I must have dreamed that, Tom thought, and yet it didn't feel like a dream. And it came with the sound of voices of vendors selling flowers and fruit, and the scent of marchpane and gingerbread, burnt sugar, and smoke, and spices.
The Market!”
― Joanne Harris, The Moonlight Market

“Cinnabar smiled. He saw that her teeth had been drilled to take a row of diamond studs that shone like tiny LEDs. Once more, he remembered those flower pictures, taken through filtered reality. Those once-familiar daisies and ferns, roses and lilies and love-in-a-mist, had the same ominous beauty when stripped of the light we see.”
― Joanne Harris, The Moonlight Market

“Vanessa called me Moth. But Charissa told me I hadn't declared my true colors yet. What did she mean?'
'She meant that your allegiance remains undetermined,' said Burnet. 'Argent is a name that can refer both to a Moth and a Butterfly. It means that you choose your colors, instead of having them imposed by birth.”
― Joanne Harris, The Moonlight Market

“Long ago, and far away, the Butterfly King met the Moth Queen. They were very different. She was nocturnal and he loved the sun; she was fierce and warlike, and he was a gentle dreamer. And they were both from different worlds. He was from a land of towers, and trains, and roads, and airplanes; she was from a land of dreams, and silent wings, and falling leaves.
But Love has always found a way of defying boundaries. And after warring for a time, and making their share of mistakes, and overcoming many dangers and obstacles, they were at last united in love, and thus united their people. And with the help of the Spider Mage and his web, they passed through the Honeycomb, and led the way back to the Kingdom all who chose to follow them there.
There, they were crowned, and made their pledge-- she in a garland of autumn leaves, he in a circlet of spider silk-- to rule the Kingdom wisely; to fight against injustice and fear; to honor their love, and to guard it well, and to tend it, and give it time to grow.
And if she was not always moderate in the way she expressed herself, and if he was sometimes a little naïve, this surprised no one, and was only to be expected. But between them, they ruled both wisely and well; with passion and moderation. And when their children were born, she taught them how to stand their ground and how to fight for what they loved; and he taught them how to see their world and appreciate its beauty.”
― Joanne Harris, The Moonlight Market