“Somewhere a cicada conversed irritably with the night, then fell silent.” — Michael Prescott Copy Share Image
“Nothing in the voice of the cicada intimates how soon it will die.” — J.D. Salinger Copy Share Image
“Of the many forms that silence takes, the most memorable is the dry husk of the cicada.” — Jon Davis Copy Share Image
Again and again, the cicada's untiring cry pierced the sultry summer air like a needle at work on thick cotton cloth. — Yukio Mishima Copy Share Image
“. . . Like ashes of gold in a cinnamon-flame, My youthful desires have been burnt with the years– And tonight in… — Haoran Meng Copy Share Image
“The shade melted away as the sun climbed into its zenith. All colors were now covered in stone dust. The only vigorous… — Aleksandr Voinov Copy Share Image
The Cicada sing an endless song in the long grass, smells run along the earth and falling stars run over the sky,… — Isak Dinesen Copy Share Image
“That’s the river up there. We’ll likely have to spend the night.’’ He slid me a curious glance. ‘‘I never asked whether… — Katie MacAlister Copy Share Image
“The cicada lies in the earth for seventeen years. It is warm and dark there, it is soft and wet. Its little… — Catherynne M. Valente Copy Share Image
