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“Those are the most monotonous fuckin' crickets I ever heard in my life.”
― Sam Shepard, True West

“The universe dilated within him, above him. Something like joy stirred in Lancaster’s being, a sublime ecstasy born of terror. His heart felt as if it might burst, might leap from his chest. His cheeks were wet. Drops of blood glittered on his bare arms, the backs of his hands, his thighs, his feet. Black as the blackest pearls come undone from a string, the droplets lifted from him, drifted from him like a slow motion comet tail, and floated toward the road, the fields. For the first time in an age he heard nothing but the night sounds of crickets, his own breath. His skull was quiet.”
― Laird Barron, The Beautiful Thing That Awaits Us All

“Keith traced my face, traced my hands and traced my body as the crickets chirped a love song and I lost myself in his eyes that stroked my soul and punctured my heart, like a poison arrow in a shooting star”
― Aishabella Sheikh, Lavinia

“There’s something about a warm summer night where all the boundaries of the world seem to fall to the softness of moonlight and crickets. And with the astonishing expanse of the entire world having drawn within arm’s reach, I realize that nothing is so far from where I am that it can’t be affected by who I am.”
― Craig D. Lounsbrough

“When you go to say hello to nature, put every redundant sound away, for nature is music, and that alone should suffice.”
― Michael Bassey Johnson, Song of a Nature Lover

“I fuckin eat silence of crickets for fun. I got life after
life and a name like Baby. Every time I try to cry a tear
a new kittenhead grows out of me.”
― Patricia Lockwood, Motherland Fatherland Homelandsexuals

“I would swear that I could practically hear crickets in the ensuing silence, if not for the fact that the stale air probably kills anything that requires oxygen to breathe.”
― T.T. Escurel, The Conservancy

“The crickets were rubbing their hind legs together, unrolling that endless band of sound that when combined with the sound of the sycamore trees losing their heads in the heat-thickened breeze could cause even a girl as unsentimental as Mary to feel like she’d just left something behind on the porch stoop she couldn’t bear to live without.”
― Kathryn Davis, Duplex

“The sound of crickets, the feel of warm dried grass on the soles of his feet and the scent of baked earth pleased him. The big thick glass was icy in his hands. When he set it down, the tinkle of the ice cubes sounded personal.”
― Ian McEwan, Lessons

“I can just imagine the cricket household at sunset:
"Oh man, it's late!!"
"Hey, you chirp I'm tired"
"Besides, the later bug becomes a rug!!"
"You just had to bring up Uncle Phil didn't you?”
― Neil Leckman, Wurms

“Seconds later, a girl emerged from the stairwell, her feet barely tapping the floor. I stepped back, shocked. She wasn't a fifty-year-old lady. She wasn't my daughter. She wasn't Robert either. She was fifteen, if that. Her cheeks were the color of brick. I opened the door. She was wearing a rain jacket, and her hands were hidden in her sleeves.
"Sorry," she said. "The subway was so slow. I got out at Ninety-Sixth Street and walked."
Her voice was deeper than I would have thought. She took off a hat that looked too big for her, all flaps and flannel. She was long-necked, reddish-haired, and freckled, but olive in the skin, as if she'd been shaded. Her eyes were light blue, like ancient sea glass. She took off her sneakers without using her hands and then leaned over and placed them neatly by the door. They were flat as pancakes, with shoelaces that didn't match. She was wearing socks with white bugs on them. She curled her toes when she saw me looking.
"You know they eat them in Thailand?" she said. "Oven-baked with green curry."
"Socks?" I asked.
"No," she said and the sides of her cheeks lifted into a smile. "Crickets on my socks.”
― Jessica Soffer, Tomorrow There Will Be Apricots

“The crickets usher in a softness that smooths the harsh edges of a day now passing. And if their song does not somehow lull us to a softer sleep, then we have become deaf to things that matter in the process of listening to all that does not.”
― Craig D. Lounsbrough

“The crickets were incessant and plenteous, their swarming tune as monotonous as a Mariah Carey CD, though not quite as grating.”
― Harlan Coben, Back Spin

“I fell asleep there in the quiet rustling of the tree branches that swayed in the breeze. I slept alongside the souls of those I'd never known, as the stars sparkled overhead like glitter and the crickets sang their song to the Carolina girl in their midst.”
― Meagan Church, The Last Carolina Girl