#moo

White-crested waves crash on the shore. The masts sway violently, every which way. In the gray sky the gulls are circling like white flakes. Rain squalls blow past like gray slanting sails, and blue gaps open in the sky. The air brightens. A cold silvery evening. The moon is overhead, and down below, in the water; and all around it-a wide frame of old, hammered, scaly silver. Etched on the silver-silent black fishing boats, tiny black needles of masts, little black men casting invisible lines into the silver. And the only sounds are the occasional plashing of an oar, the creaking of an oarlock, the springlike leap and flip-flop of a fish. ("The North") ↗

— Yevgeny Zamyatin

#boats #moon #night #shore #storm

We really have to get going," Sam said. "Can we leave the car here and pick it up later?" The monk said, "Does a dog have a Buddha nature?" Does a fish have a watertight asshole?" said Coyote. ↗

— Christopher Moore

#coyote-blue #dumb-questions #nature

I spend as much time as I can sketching from nature, Dartmoor contains such a rich variety of landscape, as many boulders, foaming rivers and twisted trees as my heart could ever desire. . . . When I look into a river, I feel I could spend a whole lifetime just painting that river. ↗

— Alan Lee

#drawing #illustrating #nature #nature

Jody noticed that the kid was focused on the breasts, which were defying gravity, and apparently death itself, by standing there at complete attention ↗

— Christopher Moore

#you-suck #death

Huysmans takes the old trope of moon-as-woman and replaces its romantic connotations with decadent ones: the moon here is woman as clamorous lunatic, as convulsive epileptic. ↗

— Charles Bernheimer

#joris-karl-huysmans #lunatic #moon #romantic

As Henry Moore carved or modelled his sculpture every day, he strove to surpass Donatello 4. and failed, but woke the next morning elated for another try. ↗

— Donald Hall

#donatello #effort #failure #henry-moore #poem

The fact is, the heart and mind aren't always friendly. And in my case, they're barely speaking. ↗

— Alyson Noel

#fact

Mercy," he mumbled. "What the hell did you do to my French Roast? ↗

— Patricia Briggs

#mercy-thompson #moon-called #coffee

Drink it,” I told her. “It’s good for what ails you. Caffeine and sugar. I don’t drink it, so I ran over to your house and stole the expensive stuff in your freezer. It shouldn’t be that bad. Samuel told me to make it strong and pour sugar into it. It should taste sort of like bitter syrup.” She gave me a smile smile, then a bigger one, and plugged her nose before she drank it down in one gulp. “Next time," she said in a hoarse voice, “I make the coffee. ↗

— Patricia Briggs

#moon-called #coffee

Roschach's Journal: October 12th, 1985 Dog carcass in alley this morning, tire tread on burst stomach. This city is afraid of me. I have seen its true face. The streets are extended gutters and the gutters are full of blood and when the drains finally scab over, all the vermin will drown. The accumulated filth of all their sex and murder will foam up about their waists and all the whores and politicians will look up and shout "Save us!"... and I'll look down and whisper "No. ↗

— Alan Moore

#graphic-novels #the-watchmen #dog