Moonlight Quotes

“(...) Sir Boris had fought and killed the Paynim; Sir Gawain, the Turk; Sir Miles, the Pole; Sir Andrew, the Frank; Sir Richard, the Austrian; Sir Jordan, the Frenchman; and Sir Herbert, the Spaniard. But of all that killing and campaigning, that drinking and love-making, that spending and hunting and riding and eating, what remained? A skull; a finger. Whereas, he said, turning to the page of Sir Thomas Browne, which lay open upon the table – and again he paused. Like an incantation rising from all parts of the room, from the night wind and the moonlight, rolled the divine melody of those words which, lest they should outstare this page, we will leave where they lie entombed, not dead, embalmed rather, so fresh is their colour, so sound their breathing – and Orlando, comparing that achievement with those of his ancestors, cried out that they and their deeds were dust and ashes, but this man and his words were immortal.”

“Once there was and once there was not a devout, God-fearing man who lived his entire life according to stoic principles. He died on his fortieth birthday and woke up floating in nothing. Now, mind you, floating in nothing was comforting, light-less, airless, like a mother’s womb. This man was grateful.But then he decided he would love to have sturdy ground beneath his feet, so he would feel more solid himself. Lo and behold, he was standing on earth. He knew it to be earth, for he knew the feel of it.Yet he wanted to see. I desire light, he thought, and light appeared. I want sunlight, not any light, and at night it shall be moonlight. His desires were granted. Let there be grass. I love the feel of grass beneath my feet. And so it was. I no longer wish to be naked. Only robes of the finest silk must touch my skin. And shelter, I need a grand palace whose entrance has double-sided stairs, and the floors must be marble and the carpets Persian. And food, the finest of food. His breakfast was English; his midmorning snack French. His lunch was Chinese. His afternoon tea was Indian. His supper was Italian, and his late-night snack was Lebanese. Libation? He had the best of wines, of course, and champagne. And company, the finest of company. He demanded poets and writers, thinkers and philosophers, hakawatis and musicians, fools and clowns.And then he desired sex.He asked for light-skinned women and dark-skinned, blondes and brunettes, Chinese, South Asian, African, Scandinavian. He asked for them singly and two at a time, and in the evenings he had orgies. He asked for younger girls, after which he asked for older women, just to try. The he tried men, muscular men, skinny men. Then boys. Then boys and girls together.Then he got bored. He tried sex with food. Boys with Chinese, girls with Indian. Redheads with ice cream. Then he tried sex with company. He fucked the poet. Everybody fucked the poet.But again he got bored. The days were endless. Coming up with new ideas became tiring and tiresome. Every desire he could ever think of was satisfied.He had had enough. He walked out of his house, looked up at the glorious sky, and said, “Dear God. I thank You for Your abundance, but I cannot stand it here anymore. I would rather be anywhere else. I would rather be in hell.”And the booming voice from above replied, “And where do you think you are?”

“' Shoes' is very pink and yellow, and maybe orange, very bright, whereas 'Midnight Moonlight' is purple and blue and - I don't know - gray.”

“Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again. It seemed to me I stood by the iron gate leading to the drive, and for a while I could not enter for the way was barred to me. There was a padlock and a chain upon the gate. I called in my dream to the lodge-keeper, and had no answer, and peering closer through the rusted spokes of the gate I saw that the lodge was uninhabited. No smoke came from the chimney, and the little lattice windows gaped forlorn. Then, like all dreamers, I was possessed of a sudden with supernatural powers and passed like a spirit through the barrier before me. The drive wound away in front of me, twisting and turning as it had always done, but as I advanced I was aware that a change had come upon it; it was narrow and unkempt, not the drive that we had known. At first I was puzzled and did not understand, and it was only when I bent my head to avoid the low swinging branch of a tree that I realized what had happened. Nature had come into her own again, and, little by little, in her stealthy, insidious way, had encroached upon the drive with long, tenacious fingers. The woods, always a menace even in the past, had triumphed in the end. They crowded, dark and uncontrolled, to the orders of the drive. The beeches with white, naked limbs leant close to one another, their branches intermingled in a strange embrace, making a vault above my head like the archway of a church. And there were other trees as well, trees that I did not recognize, squat oaks and tortured elms that straggled cheek by jowl with the beeches, and had thrust themselves out of the quiet earth, along with monster shrubs and plants, none of which I remembered surely the miles had multiplied, even as the trees had done, and this path led but to a labyrinth, some choked wilderness, and not to the house at all. I cam upon it suddenly There was Manderley secretive and silent as it had always been, the grey stone shining in the moonlight of my dream, the mullioned windows reflecting the green lawns and the terrace. Time could not wreck the perfect symmetry of those walls nor the site itself, a jewel in the hollow of a hand.” Daphne du Maurier, Rebecca, 1938.”

“the flute is the true magical rod that changes all it touches in the inward world; an enchanter's wand at which the secret depths of the soul open. The inward world is the true world," said Vult; "the moonlight that shines into our hearts.”

“Upon the clothes behind the tenement, That hang like ghosts suspended from the lines, Linking each flat, but to each indifferent, Incongruous and strange the moonlight shines.”

“Moonlight is my theater group. They are my home. I feel greatly appreciated there. That type of satisfaction, money can't buy.”

“I want to take you under the moonlight.”

“I auditioned for 'Moonlight' without knowing anything. I went in the room, and I didn't know the lines as well as I should have. I didn't know a thing about the script. I wasn't told anything. I heard it was a low-budget film, and my agent told me to do it. I was super-ignorant to it.”

“This is what it is to love an artist: The moon is always rising above your house. The houses of your neighbors look dull and lacking in moonlight. But he is always going away from you. Inside his head there is always something more beautiful.”

“Let the moonlight sparkyour creativity..your imagination..your energy..and your love for others.”

“If I lose the light of the sun, I will write by candlelight, moonlight, no light, If I lose paper and ink, I will write in blood on forgotten walls. I will write always. I will capture nights all over the world and bring them to you.”

“I have many lovers.Where ever I look, I find them.There is no place devoid of them.They are everywhere:In the enchanting Cottonwood trees,The rivers, the rocky roads, the hills, the mystic trails,The snow capped mountains,The skies, the clouds, the soaring Eagles,The blackness of night, as black as the Raven,The absolute brave Cactus,Listening to me, and the whispers I breathe.Where ever I, look I find them.There is no place devoid of them.My lovers are everywhere.They are everywhere:In the rains, the freezing winds,The sun, the moonlight,The darkness of despair,The days of pain and sorrow,They never leave me, or betray me,Or ever forsake me,Even in my unfaithfulness,They remain mine.Am I blessed, crazy, or blind?However much I dare,Even in those careless moments; they care.Where ever I look, I find them,There is no place devoid of them,My lovers are everywhere.They are everywhere:I close my eye’s, I see them,They appear to me patiently,like some ancient melody,in my waking dreams, they are like wise prophets,twirling in compassionate dances of forgiveness.Allowing me my mistakes of existence,They give me, ‘me’,Reach for my fears, cradle and hold me.They are everywhere.I will regenerate,and shine through their presence.Through their guidance, from their quiet empowerment,I will gather myself, pick up my pride,Understand ‘life’, and remember reality.Finally, when my ‘being’ remains not with me,they will once again redefine, re-collect me,recreate the aura around me,find another place to replant me.They are everywhere.No place is devoid of them.Countless lovers.Their love: Omnipresent.Only if one can ‘see’,These lovers are everywhere .”

“The wastes of snow on the hill were ghostly in the moonlight. The stars were piercingly bright.”

“So asking you to take a moonlit walk with me, that would totally not work?""What?" Again that glare. "Go away. Stop being an idiot. I don't even know you.""You're healing my little brother Bowie.""Yeah, that doesn't make us friends, kid.""So no moonlight.""Are you retarded?""Sunrise? I could get up early.""Go away.""Sunset tomorrow?" -Sanjit & Lana”

“I don't just do power ballads. I have a lot of up-tempo stuff, too - like 'Can't Fight the Moonlight.'”

“I often wish I'd got on better with your father,' he said.But he never liked anyone who--our friends,' said Clarissa; and could have bitten her tongue for thus reminding Peter that he had wanted to marry her.Of course I did, thought Peter; it almost broke my heart too, he thought; and was overcome with his own grief, which rose like a moon looked at from a terrace, ghastly beautiful with light from the sunken day. I was more unhappy than I've ever been since, he thought. And as if in truth he were sitting there on the terrace he edged a little towards Clarissa; put his hand out; raised it; let it fall. There above them it hung, that moon. She too seemed to be sitting with him on the terrace, in the moonlight.”

“The moon is the reflection of your heart and moonlight is the twinkle of your love.”

“Hasn't there always been a moon?""Bless you. Not in the slightest. I remember the day the moon came. We looked up in the sky--it was all dirty brown and sooty gray here then, not green and blue...”

“She raised the shovel, ready to plunge it into the soft soil. "I am not afraid. I am not." "You should be." A sinister, accented voice pierced her consciousness. The shovel fell from her nerveless fingers, thudding onto the cold ground. Cassandra knew that voice; it had the rich, dark cadence that had haunted her dreams since the night she'd first met him. She spun around, the hood of her cloak falling to her shoulders. Rafael Villar stepped out from behind a mausoleum. The shadows embraced his bronze skin, obscuring the scars on the left side of his face while moonlight highlighted his exotic Mediterranean features on the right.... "You! You've been the one disturbing my people?”