Life is too short to not have fun; we are only here for a short time compared to the sun and the moon and all that.
Don't judge a man until you have walked two moons in his moccasins.
There'll be a man on the moon before Gaylord Perry hits a home run.
Poetry, the best of it, is lunar and is concerned with the essential insanities. Journalism is solar (there are numerous newspapers named The Sun, none called The Moon) and is devoted to the inessential.
It is often said that the Buddha's teaching is only a raft to help you cross the river, a finger pointing to the moon. Don't maistake the finger for the moon. The raft is not the shore. If we cling to the raft, if we cling to the finger, we miss everything. We cannot, in the name of the finger or the raft kill each other. Human life is more precious than any ideology, any doctrine.
I love old moons. There is something humanized about them; they are dulled a little, and rich in color. One can stare all night at an old moon.
She didn't quite know what the relationship was between lunatics and the moon, but it must be a strong one, if they used a word like that to describe the insane.
The mind is its own beautiful prisoner. Mind looked long at the sticky moon opening in dusk her new wings then decently hanged himself,one afternoon. The last thing he saw was you naked amid unnaked things.
Clapping my hands with the echoes the summer moon begins to dawn.
There was a knight came riding by In early spring, when the roads were dry; And he heard that lady sing at the noon, Two red roses across the moon.
Whether your characters journey daily to a distant moon or just down the street to the corner bar, what matters to the reader is the singular event that distinguishes one such voyage from all the others and makes for a story worth telling.
The moon was out and I saw some sheep. I saw some sheep take a walk in their sleep. By the light of the moon, by the light of a star, They walked all night from near to far. I would never walk, I would take a car.
It is unconceivable that the whole Universe was merely created for us who live in this third-rate planet of a third-rate moon.
No matter when you had been to this spot before, a thousand years ago or a hundred thousand years ago, or if you came back to it a million years from now, you would see some different things each time, but the scene would be generally the same.
I believed that once we got to the Moon, there was no stopping us. But in fact, we did stop.
The moon. . . is a mad woman holding up her dress So that her white belly shines. Haughty, Impregnable, Ridiculous, Silent and white as a debauched queen.
He was tall, thin, and very old, judging by the silver of his hair and beard, which were both long enough to tuck into his belt. He was wearing long robes, a purple cloak that swept the ground, and high-heeled, buckled boots. His blue eyes were light, bright, and sparkling behind half-moon spectacles and his nose was very long and crooked, as though it had been broken at least twice. This man's name was Albus Dumbledore.
Most women would rather have someone whisper their name at optimum moments than rocket with contractions to the moon.
I can't think of a comparable level of cultural excitement about something since Neil Armstrong landed on the moon in the 1960s.
Works? Works? A man get to heaven by works? I would as soon think of climbing to the moon on a rope of sand!