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“The Moth don't care when he sees The Flame.
He might get burned, but he's in the game.
And once he's in, he can't go back, he'll
Beat his wings 'til he burns them black...
No, The Moth don't care when he sees The Flame. . .
The Moth don't care if The Flame is real,
'Cause Flame and Moth got a sweetheart deal.
And nothing fuels a good flirtation,
Like Need and Anger and Desperation...
No, The Moth don't care if The Flame is real. . . ”
― Aimee Mann

“They waited for the elevator. " Most people love butterflies and hate moth," he said. "But moths are more interesting - more engaging."
"They're destructive."
"Some are, a lot are, but they live in all kinds of ways. Just like we do." Silence for one floor.
"There's a moth, more than one in fact, that lives only on tears," he offered. "That's all they eat or drink."
"What kind of tears? Whose tears?"
"The tears of large land mammals, about our size.
The old definition of moth was, 'anything that gradually, silently eats, consumes, or wages any other thing.'
It was a verb for destruction too. . . .”
― Thomas Harris, The Silence of the Lambs

“The streetlight outside my house shines on tonight and I'm watching it like it could give me a vision. James ain't talked ever and he looks at that streetlight like it was a word and maybe like it was a verb. James wanted to streetlight me and make me bright and beautiful so all the moths and bats would circle me like I was the center of the world an held secrets.”
― Sherman Alexie, The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fistfight in Heaven

“The possibilities of pleasure seemed that morning so enormous and so various that to have only a moth's part in life, and a day moth's at that, appeared a hard fate, and his zest in enjoying his meagre opportunities to the full, pathetic. He flew vigorously to one corner of his compartment, and, after waiting there a second, flew across to the other. What remained for him but to fly to a third corner and then to a fourth? That was all he could do, in spite of the size of the downs, the width of the sky, the far-off smoke of houses, and the romantic voice, now and then, of a steamer out at sea. What he could do he did.”
― Virginia Woolf, Street Haunting

“It was the moths that first revealed the change. Grey-tipped whispers in the moonlit night. Two or three here, a single one there. White ones slipping through the darkness, silent and seemingly harmless, but present. Growing in numbers until they erupted the quiet like flutters of falling ash. There was a music in their silence. The kind of music that attached itself to hums and vibrations in the waters of the earth.

The hums, the vibrations, all but imperceptible. With the dawn the moths vanished, leaving a broken land in their wake. The Elian River leaked out into fissures of streams and brooks that first appeared as watery cracks throughout the Faeran Valley. So small at first, we didn't recognize the difference.

But as the months and years passed, the Elian slipped further and deeper into the growing fractures of earth the moths had left. Trails of watery branches and veins that broke the ground until it couldn't sustain life any longer.

This is what we have against the Bremistans. The land is delicate now, brittle like old bones. And I fear it is aging beyond our ability to heal it....”
― Debi Cimo, Delicate The alchemy of Emily Greyson

“Clive convinced himself that it wouldn’t be long before we’d be able to predict all their [the moths] equations of cause and effect, then perhaps even map out each and every cell, and configure them in their entirety as robots, in terms of molecules, chemicals and electrical signals. And what fed this particular obsession was Pupal Soup.

If you cut through a cocoon in mid-winter, a thick creamy liquid will spill out and nothing more. What goes into that cocoon in autumn is a caterpillar and what comes out in spring is entirely different—a moth, complete with papery wings, hair like legs and antennae. Yet this same creature spends winter as a gray-green liquid, a primordial soup. The miraculous meltdown of an animal into a case of fluid chemicals and its exquisite re-generation into a different animal, like a stupendous jigsaw, was a feat that, far from putting off, fed Clive’s obsession. He believed it made his lifetime ambition easier because, however complex it might be, it was, after all, only a jigsaw, and to Clive, that meant it was possible. For all the chemicals required to make a moth were right there in front of his eyes, in the pupal soup.”
― Poppy Adams, The Sister

“The boy moths get fooled by a smell?
No, they get fooled by sex. All males do.”
― Brian K. Vaughan, Y: The Last Man - The Deluxe Edition Book Three

“He stalked back to the enormous moth, but it wouldn't return him to Elfhame until he went to a nearby general store, glamoured leaves into money to buy it an entire six-pack of lager, and then poured the booze into a frothing puddle on the ground for the creature to lap at.”
― Holly Black, How the King of Elfhame Learned to Hate Stories

“You have no hobby then?"
"Moths interest me, my lady.”
― Daphne du Maurier, Frenchman's Creek

“When I was small, my mother told me that moths were butterflies that had been banished to the night, where they lived tortured lives dreaming of the day. In this way she explained why they sacrificed themselves to flame; it was both an end to their suffering and a reunion with the light they longed for.
The parable, of course, was meant to warn me against wanting what I should not have.”
― Elizabeth Inness-Brown, Burning Marguerite

“Perhaps there was nothing to be said, and there was nothing to be heard. Perhaps all we were destined to be were moths to the flame, burn ourselves out in the pursuit of the next light we saw. This light had burnt me out. And all I could do was wait till I rose, phoenix-like, only to be burnt again.”
― Kiran Manral, More Things in Heaven and Earth

“Queen Annet sits on a throne covered in powdery white moths, each one fluttering its wings a little, giving the whole thing the effect of a moving carpet.”
― Holly Black, The Stolen Heir

“To me, moths are ugly butterflies. But these days, society probably considers them beauty queens.”
― Jarod Kintz, Powdered Saxophone Music

“The star collapsed behind us while the army of refugees dove like moths toward the last lit lamp in the universe.

Cheng Jingbo”
― Ken Liu, Invisible Planets: Contemporary Chinese Science Fiction in Translation

“The Polyphemus moth never made it to the past; it crawls in that crowded, pellucid pool at the lip of the great waterfall. It is as present as this blue desk and brazen lamp, as this blackened window before me.”
― Annie Dillard, Pilgrim at Tinker Creek

“Moths," repeats Will. "You're afraid of moths?"

"Not just a cloud of moths," she says, "like...a swarm of them. Everywhere. All those wings and legs and..." She shudders and shakes her head.

"Terrifying," Will says with mock seriousness. "That's my girl. Tough as cotton balls."

"Oh, Shut up.”
― Veronica Roth, Divergent

“She blew across the moth's back. 'Please,' she whispered to the moth, 'find me what I need to help my sister.'

Its wings shivered. For a moment the black lines seemed to rearrange themselves, forming letters, words, sentences. Then it spread its wings and flew.”
― T. Kingfisher, Nettle & Bone

“Taryn is beautiful in her heavily embroidered dress, and Vivi radiant in soft violet grey with artfully sewn moths seeming to fly from her shoulder across her chest to gather in another group on one side of her waist. I realise how rarely I've seen her in truly splendid clothes. Her hair is up, and my earrings glitter in her lightly furred ears. Her cat eyes gleam in the half light, twin to Madoc's. For once, that makes me smile.”
― Holly Black, The Cruel Prince

“He doesn't fall like the others. Instead of blood pouring from his wound, red moths stream out, in to the air. They rush out of him so quickly that in a moment, the High King's body is gone and there are just those red moths, swirling up in to the air in a vast cloud, a tornado of soft wings.

But whatever magic made them does not last. They begin to fall until they are scattered across the dais like blown leaves. The High King Eldred is, impossibly, dead.”
― Holly Black, The Cruel Prince

“Papery moths fly above our heads, circling up as though tragically drawn to the light of the stars.”
― Holly Black, The Wicked King

“Moths have the animal world’s most exceptional sense of smell and can capture separate scent molecules with their antennae.”
― Johan Eklöf, The Darkness Manifesto: On Light Pollution, Night Ecology, and the Ancient Rhythms that Sustain Life

“And he said...

...as the lights go out, the moths return home.”
― Anthony T. Hincks

“The young Prince arrived in this world, lost and very frightened. The thread he had followed was broken, and he had no means of spinning another. His friend, the Spider Mage, was too far away to hear his cries, and this world of cruelty and noise was too much for him. Even the air was unbreathable. And so he crept into World Below, and wept to himself in the darkness. As he wept, his grief was so great that he broke into a cloud of butterflies and moths, each one a fragment of himself, that scattered into the darkness of the tunnels beneath the city. Some of them found their way to the light. Others stayed in the darkness. Some slept. And they became two separate groups-- one living underground, one in the light, both yearning for the world they had left, and for the chance to be whole again.”
― Joanne Harris, The Moonlight Market

“And with that, he stepped out from the darkness of the tunnel mouth to find himself in a kind of cave; the air was warm with sandalwood, and nutmeg, and allspice, and cardamom, and the Moths were all around him.

For a moment, Tom was breathless with the beauty of the Midnight Folk. In the semi-darkness, their wings shone with a faint luminescence and their skin gleamed with unearthly tattoos, like something under black light. Their hair was braided with feathers and rags, and all of them seemed to be covered with a powdery dust that twinkled and shone against their skin, setting the shadows darkly aflame. And all around them lay a pattern of those vivid tracks, as if the luminescence could be transferred to their surroundings by touch; each set of prints a different shade in troubled, alien colors.
Instinctively, he looked for Charissa's colors in the crowd. But she was nowhere to be seen. Instead, he was surrounded by the dangerous shine of the enemy. He saw them only in slices of light against the velvet darkness. The tip of a wing; the gleam of an eye; the mystic spiral of a tattoo that seemed to move across the skin.”
― Joanne Harris, The Moonlight Market

“And running through his story, from adolescence to adulthood, always by moonlight, but bright as the sun, there was Charissa. But this was a different Charissa to the one he thought he knew; that fierce and cynical Moth girl, loyal only to herself.
Here was Charissa as a girl, hopeful and filled with laughter. Here, as an adolescent, wise one moment, childish the next. Here, she glanced out from the pages as an adult, a lover, a friend; dancing in the firelight, poised against the starry sky. Here, she was trusting, loving, unmasked, gentle and filled with confidences. Here, by the light of the full moon, she was not only beautiful, she was by far the most beautiful woman Tom had ever seen.
And now Tom Argent realized what he should have guessed before, what he should have seen in her eyes while he had been dazzled by someone else. She was the girl on the bridge, the one who had kissed him so tenderly. Hers was the shine he had recognized, reflected in Vanessa. She had been the memory contained in the flower seller's gift, the flower that only blossoms once, like innocence---
Like true love.”
― Joanne Harris, The Moonlight Market

“You were always the King of Much Too Late.'
'And you were always the Queen of my heart,' said Burnet, and held out his arms to her.
For a second, Vanessa said nothing. Her angry profile was turned away; her dark hair shimmered silver. Burnet put his arms around her, and for a moment, she turned her face into the curve of his shoulder...
Then the air gave a giant sob, as if rushing in to fill a space, and the interlaced pair dispersed into dazzling fragments. Millions of butterflies and moths exploded into the turbulence, fluttering madly to escape; bright wings torching the London smoke into a cacophony of colors.
Golden-winged and orange-tipped; peacock-eyed and painted; speckled, stippled, spotted; striped; fretting the kaleidoscope air. And then, they slowly began to dissolve like smoke into the atmosphere.”
― Joanne Harris, The Moonlight Market

“This story isn't over.' He pulled again at the loose thread, winding it around his thumb. The thread was long and silvery, like a thread of moonlight. Spider's skillful fingers teased and pulled on the delicate thread. And as they did so, the Daylight Folk gradually became aware of the cloud of butterflies and moths returning. Softly, they settled onto the stones and terracotta tiles of the roof. Softly, they settled onto the stones of the parapet where Spider sat. Softly, they clustered and blossomed and bloomed, hanging like grapes in the luminous air-- and soon the onlookers started to see a figure-- no, two figures-- taking shape among them. For a moment, it was impossible to see more than an outline. But as the shapes became clearer, the Daylight Folk were able to see a man and a woman, hand in hand. Their faces were almost familiar, and yet not quite the same as before: the woman small-featured and freckle-faced; the man dark-haired and soulful. Each of them was staring at the other in amazement.
'Tom?' said Charissa.
'Charissa?' said Tom.”
― Joanne Harris, The Moonlight Market

“He had become aware of the eyes of the Daylight Folk on him. Hopeful, expectant, suspicious or dazed, they watched him from the parapet and from the crenellations of the Natural History Museum, their wings spread like banners against the sky. And now he could see the Midnight Folk, too, drawn by whatever mystery had been at work on these rooftops: Atlas, and Luna, and Diamondback, and Cinnabar. For a moment, Cinnabar stood aloof on the parapet. Then Brimstone held out his hand to her, and she went to join him.
My people, Tom thought to himself, and put up his hand to cover a smile. It was ridiculous, of course, and yet it felt so natural. As natural as being in love. As natural as flying.
Spider pulled at the silver thread again. Between his fingers, Tom now saw an intricate cat's cradle of light that seemed to extend in multiple directions. 'With this, you can go anywhere,' said Spider, lifting the cradle of light. 'You could stay here, in London Before. You could go back to the London you know. Or you could reclaim your Kingdom, and lead your people home. Your choice.' He passed the cat's cradle over Tom's head. As it touched him, the net of light settled over Tom's shoulders, becoming a kind of mantle: golden, soft as spider silk, light as woven thistledown. He made the same gesture over Charissa, and she too was draped in gossamer. And with the mantle came a scent of green woods and of summertime; of distant spices, unnamed blooms, and blackberries, and honeycomb.”
― Joanne Harris, The Moonlight Market

“When he lit up, we were like moths to a flame.”
― Ashley Poston, The Seven Year Slip

“Butterflies, as if unaware that darkness is no impediment to love, are playing the primordial game with light.”
― Suman Pokhrel