Sleeping in a bedit is, apparently, of immense importance. Against those who sleep, from choice or necessity, elsewhere society feels righteously hostile. It is not done. It is disorderly, anarchical.
(Rose Macaulay (1881-1958), British novelist, essayist. "Beds and 'Omes," A Casual Commentary (1925).)
A solitary traveller can sleep from state to state, from day to night, from day to day, in the long womb of its controlled interior. It is the cradle that never stops rocking after the lullaby is over. It is the biggest sleeping tablet in the world, and no one need ever swallow the pill, for it swallows them.
(Lisa St. Aubin de Terán (b. 1953), British author. Off the Rails, ch. 15 (1989).
On trains in the U.S.)
All right. If you insist. I do not sleep with girls. No, no, no, let me be absolutely accurate. I've gone through the motions of sleeping with girls exactly three times, all of them disastrous. The word for my sex life now is nil. Or as you Americans would say, "plenty of nuttin'."
(Jay Presson Allen (b. 1922), U.S. screenwriter. Brian (Michael York), Cabaret (1972).
Responding to Sally's inquiries.)
What did it matter where you lay once you were dead? In a dirty sump or in a marble tower on top of a high hill? You were dead, you were sleeping the big sleep, you were not bothered by things like that. Oil and water were the same as wind and air to you.
(Raymond Chandler (1888-1959), U.S. author. Philip Marlowe, in The Big Sleep, ch. 32 (1939).)
When I dance, I dance; when I sleep, I sleep; yes, and when I walk alone in a beautiful orchard, if my thoughts have been dwelling elsewhere, I bring them back to the walk, to the orchard, to the sweetness of this solitude, and to me.
(Michel de Montaigne (1533-1592), French essayist. "Of Experience," The Essays (Les Essais), bk. III, ch. 13, Abel Langelier, Paris (1588).)
As some heads cannot carry much wine, so it would seem that I cannot bear so much society as you can. I have an immense appetite for solitude, like an infant for sleep, and if I don't get enough of it this year, I shall cry all the next.
(Henry David Thoreau (1817-1862), U.S. philosopher, author, naturalist. Letter, September 9, 1857, to Daniel Ricketson, in The Writings of Henry David Thoreau, vol. 6, p. 313, Houghton Mifflin (1906).)
Work your progress! Hold to! Now! Win out, ye divil ye! The silent cock shall crow at last. The west shall shake the east awake. Walk while ye have the night for morn, lightbreakfastbringer, morroweth whereon every past shall full fost sleep. Amain.
(James Joyce (1882-1941), Irish author. Finnegans Wake, Part III, section ii, Penguin (1976).
The hero's story is the artist's progress in Joyce's vision.)