The full moon - the mandala of the sky.
It was autumn, the springtime of death. Rain spattered the rotting leaves, and a wild wind wailed. Death was singing in the shower. Death was happy to be alive. The fetus bailed out without a parachute. It landed in the sideline Astroturf, so upsetting the cheerleaders that for the remained of the afternoon their rahs were more like squeaks.
The only question is how to make love stay.
It was autumn, the springtime of death.
The problem starts at the secondary level, not with the originator or developer of the idea but with the people who are attracted to it, who adopt it, who cling to it until their last nail breaks, and who invariably lack the overview, flexibility, imagination, and, most importantly, sense of humor, to maintain it in the spirit in which it was hatched. Ideas are made by masters, dogma by disciples, and the Buddha is always killed on the road.
It's not men who limit women, it's not straights who limit gays, it's not whites who limit blacks. What limits people is lack of character. What limits people is that they don't have the fucking nerve or imagination to star in their own movie, let alone direct it.
There are essential and inessential insanities. The later are solar in character, the former are linked to the moon.
Leave it to a naive world-saver like you to view our love as a Sacred Cause when in actual fact all it was was some barking at the moon.
There are only two mantras, yum and yuck, mine is yum.
Alas, Gulietta, this was an American frog of the last quarter of the twentieth century, a time when wishing apparently no longer led to anything, and Leigh-Cheri eventually named it Prince Charming after that son-of-a-bitch who never comes though.
Nobody quite knew what to make of the moon any more.
There are two kinds of people in this world: Those who believe there are two kinds of people in this world and those who are smart enough to know better.
As they say in my country, have a nice day.
Outlaws, like lovers, poets, and tubercular composers who cough blood onto piano keys, do their finest work in the slippery rays of the moon.
There is, however, a similarity between juggling and composing on the typewriter. The trick is, when you spill something, make it look like part of the act.
If this typewriter can't do it, then fuck it, it can't be done.
People are never perfect, but love can be.
They glared at her the way any intelligent persons ought to glare when what they need is a smoke, a bite, a cup of coffee, a piece of ass, or a good fast-paced story, and all they're getting is philosophy.
If you're honest, you sooner or later have to confront your values. Then you're forced to separate what is right from what is merely legal. This puts you metaphysically on the run. America is full of metaphysical outlaws.
Political activism is seductive because it seems to offer the possibility that one can improve society, make things better, without going through the personal ordeal of rearranging one's perceptions and transforming one's self.
Tilli stroked her Chihuahua. MaxÆs heart made a sound like the sleigh bells on Mrs. Santa ClausÆs dildo.
I'm an outlaw, not a hero. I never intended to rescue you. We're our own dragons as well as heroes, and we have to rescue ourselves from ourselves.
Society had a crime problem. It hired cops to attack crime. Now society has a cop problem.
Western civilization was declining too fast for comfort, but too slowly to be very exciting.
In the world according to the positivist, the inspiring thing about scrambled eggs is that any way you turn them they're sunny side up. In the world according to the existentialist, the hopeless thing about scrambled eggs is that any way you turn them they're scrambled.
Some folks hide, and some folks seek, and seeking, when it's mindless, neurotic, desperate, or pusillanimous can be a form of hiding.
What we have here is an unexpected touchdown on the runway of the heart.
It might be noted here that Freudian analysts of fairy tales have suggested that kissing toads and frogs is symbolized fellatio. In that regard, Princess Leigh-Cheri was, on a conscious level, innocent, although not so na?ve as Queen Tilli, who though fellatio was an obscure Italian opera and was annoyed that she couldnÆt find the score.
More Tom Robbins Quotations (Based on Topics)
Love - People - Society & Civilization - Life - Mind - Death & Dying - World - Man - Time - Perfection - God - Sense & Perception - Imagination & Visualization - Beauty - Jokes & Humor - Tom) Robbins Quotes on Politics - Thought & Thinking - Idea - Duty - View All Tom Robbins Quotations
More Tom Robbins Quotations (By Book Titles)
- Even Cowgirls Get the Blues
- Jitterbug Perfume
- Still Life with Woodpecker
Napolean Hill - Hans Christian Andersen - Robert Kiyosaki - Robert Fulghum - Robert Fitzgerald - Lu Xun - Ken Follett - Joseph Campbell - Jane Roberts - Harriet Beecher Stowe