John Fowles Quotes

The moon is swimming naked and the summer night is fragrant with a mighty expectation of relief.

Perhaps the crescent moon smiles in doubt at being told that it is a fragment awaiting perfection.

That orbed maiden, with white fire laden, Whom mortals call the moon.

The moon, by her comparative proximity, and the constantly varying appearances produced by her several phases, has always occupied a considerable share of the attention of the inhabitants of the earth.

Ever since I was a kid, I have loved the Moon. It's always there and continues to inspire humanity.

I'm really fascinated by the moon.

Sometimes in the afternoon sky the moon would pass white as a cloud, furtive, lusterless, like an actress who does not have to perform yet and who, from the audience, in street clothes, watches the other actors for a moment, making herself inconspicuous, not wanting anyone to pay attention to her.

A naked moon stood in a naked sky.

The moon, like to a silver bow new bent in heaven.

The moon is no door. It is a face in its own right, White as a knuckle and terribly upset. It drags the sea after it like a dark crime; it is quiet With the O-gape of complete despair. I live here.

The moon is nothing But a circumambulating aphrodisiac Divinely subsidized to provoke the world Into a rising birth-rate

a full moon is a flashlight so everyone can see your drama!

The new moon rode high in the crown of the metropolis. Shinin', like "Who on top of this?

Not secondary to the sun, she gives us his blaze again, Void of its flame, and sheds a softer day... In Heaven queen she is among the spheres; She, mistress-like, makes all things to be pure.

The moon rose, an opalescent goddess tipping light from her harsh maternal scimitar.

Such a slender moon, going up and up, Waxing so fast from night to night, And swelling like an orange flower-bud, bright, Fated, methought, to round as to a golden cup, And hold to my two lips life's best of wine.

Under your skin the moon is alive.

You gazed at the moon and fell in the gutter.

Look at the moon in the sky, not the one in the lake.

The Moon is a white strange world, great, white, soft-seeming globe in the night sky, and what she actually communicates to me across space I shall never fully know. But the Moon that pulls the tides, and the Moon that controls the menstrual periods of women, and the Moon that touches the lunatics, she is not the mere dead lump of the astronomist. . . . When we describe the Moon as dead, we are describing the deadness in ourselves. When we find space so hideously void, we are describing our own unbearable emptiness.

the moon rattles like a fragment of angry candy

The moon invented natural rhythm. Civilization uninvented it.

The moon was a sharply defined crescent and the sky was perfectly clear. The stars shone with such fierce, contained brilliance that it seemed absurd to call the night dark.