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“The sidewalks were haunted by dustghosts all night as the furnace wind summoned them up,swung them about, and gentled them down in a warm spice onthe lawns. Trees, shaken by the footsteps of late-night strol-lers, sifted avalanches of dust. From midnight on, it seemed avolcano beyond the town was showering red-hot ashes every-where, crusting slumberless night watchmen and irritabledogs. Each house was a yellow attic smoldering with spon-taneous combustion at three in the morning.Dawn, then, was a time where things changed element forelement. Air ran like hot spring waters nowhere, with nosound. The lake was a quantity of steam very still and deep over valleys of fish and sand held baking under its serenevapors. Tar was poured licorice in the streets, red bricks werebrass and gold, roof tops were paved with bronze. The high-tension wires were lightning held forever, blazing, a threatabove the unslept houses. The cicadas sang louder and yet louder. The sun did not rise, it overflowed.”
Ray Bradbury“I guess I felt attached to my weakness. My pain and suffering too. Summer light, the smell of a breeze, the sound of cicadas - if I like these things, why should I apologize?”
Haruki Murakami, A Wild Sheep Chase“. . . Like ashes of gold in a cinnamon-flame,My youthful desires have been burnt with the years– And tonight in the chilling sunset-windA cicada, singing, weighs on my heart.”
Haoran Meng“The cicadas buzzing, I can hear them through the window. Buzzing louder and louder. Just like the night I sat by the window in the dark, gasping for air, feeling the riddle wriggling in my chest, hearing the monster's heavy footsteps in my ears. And suddenly I know. What they do all those years living in the ground. The nymphs who are to become cicadas. Maybe they don’t know it themselves, but they are writing their song. Collecting the notes in the dark earth. The song rising to the sky, this is how it is, this is how it always is. The song floating toward the sky comes from the underworld.”
Lene Fogelberg, Beautiful Affliction“Of the many forms that silence takes, the most memorable is the dry husk of the cicada.”
Jon Davis“Do you know the legend about cicadas? They say they are the souls of poets who cannot keep quiet because, when they were alive, they never wrote the poems they wanted to.”
John Berger“There was an electric buzzing sound that was constantly on, acting as background music like a million cicadas in the forest. A constant white noise.”
Missy Lyons, Alien Promise“Again and again, the cicada’s untiring cry pierced the sultry summer air like a needle at work on thick cotton cloth.”
Yukio Mishima, Runaway Horses“I don't want to die without telling you that I love you," Everett's voice was a faint, wavering whisper, and his lips swollen and bloodied. "I always have.”
Belle Whittington, Cicada“Even without seeing the crickets, grasshoppers, cicadas and katydids, we hear them shrilling in this season and trust that they're the tiny living gargoyles entomologists claim.”
Diane Ackerman