“Sleep is like a cat: It only comes to you if you ignore it. I drank more and continued my mantra. ‘Stop thinking’, swig, ‘empty your head’, swig, ‘now, seriously empty your head’.” – Gillian Flynn, Gone Girl
“When I can’t sleep I count the buckles on my straightjacket.” – Cathie Linz, Bad Girls Don’t
“He would lie in the bed and finally, with daylight, he would go to sleep. After all, he said to himself, it is probably only insomnia. Many must have it.” – Ernest Hemingway, A Clean Well Lighted Place
“The best cure for insomnia is to get a lot of sleep.” – W.C. Fields
“I’m so exhausted and yet I feel like I’ll never sleep again.” – Maya Banks, Hidden Away
“Right now I can’t even control my own imagination as it grips my hair and drags me into the dark” – Tahereh Mafi, Unravel Me
“Insomnia is a variant of Tourette’s–the waking brain races, sampling the world after the world has turned away, touching it everywhere, refusing to settle, to join the collective nod. The insomniac brain is a sort of conspiracy theorist as well, believing too much in its own paranoiac importance–as though if it were to blink, then doze, the world might be overrun by some encroaching calamity, which its obsessive musings are somehow fending off.” – Jonathan Lethem, Motherless Brooklyn
“Waking up was a daily cruelty, an affront, and she avoided it by not sleeping.” – Gregory Maguire, A Lion Among Men
“When it becomes really impossible to get away and sleep, then the will to live evaporates of its own accord.” – Louis-Ferdinand Celine, Journey To The End Of The Night
“Then Night came down like the feathery soot of a smoky lamp, and smutted first the bedquilt, then the hearth-rug, then the window-seat, and then at last the great, stormy, faraway outside world. But sleep did not come. Oh, no! Nothing new came at all except that particularly wretched, itching type of insomnia which seems to rip away from one’s body the whole kind, protecting skin and expose all the raw, ticklish fretwork of nerves to the mercy of a gritty blanket or a wrinkled sheet. Pain came too, in its most brutally high night-tide; and sweat, like the smother of furs in summer; and thirst like the scrape of hot sand-paper; and chill like the clammy horror of raw fish.” – Eleanor Hallowell Abbott, Molly Make-Believe
“Women can go mad with insomnia.
The sleep-deprived roam houses that have lost their familiarity. With tea mugs in hand, we wander rooms, looking on shelves for something we will recognize: a book title, a photograph, the teak-carved bird — a souvenir from what place? A memory almost rises when our eyes rest on a painting’s grey sweep of cloud, or the curve of a wooden leg in a corner. Fingertips faintly recall the raised pattern on a chair cushion, but we wonder how these things have come to be here, in this stranger’s home.
Lost women drift in places where time has collapsed. We look into our thoughts and hearts for what has been forgotten, for what has gone missing. What did we once care about? Whom did we love? We are emptied. We are remote. Like night lilies, we open in the dark, breathe in the shadowy world. Our soliloquies are heard by no one.” – Cathy Ostlere, Lost
“Sleep deprivation is physically miserable and creatively cathartic, as internal landscapes rise up from their dormant ashes.” – Jaeda DeWalt