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And when the fog's over and the stars and the moon come out at night it'll be a beautiful sight.
-Jack Kerouac
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And When The Fog's Over And The

Jack Kerouac
And when the fog's over and the stars and the moon come out at night it'll be a beautiful sight.
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Beautiful Stars Moon

More From Jack Kerouac

There was just one moon. that familiar, yellow, solitary moon. the same moon that silently floated over fields of pampas grass, the moon that rose--a gleaming, round saucer--over the calm surface of lakes, that tranquilly beamed down on the rooftops of fast-asleep houses. the same moon that brought the high tide to shore, that softly shone on the fur of animals and enveloped and protected travelers at night. the moon that, as a crescent, shaved slivers from the soul--or, as a new moon, silently bathed the earth in its own loneliness. that moon.
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Fog everywhere. fog up the river where it flows among green airs and meadows; fog down the river, where it rolls defiled among the tiers of shipping, and the waterside pollutions of a great (and dirty) city.... chance people on the bridges peeping over the parapets into a nether sky of fog, with fog all round them, as if they were up in a balloon and hanging in the misty clouds.
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People have stars, but they aren't the same. for travelers, the stars are guides. for other people, they're nothing but tiny lights. and for still others, for scholars, they're problems... but all those stars are silent stars. you, though, you'll have stars like nobody else... since i'll be laughing on one of them, for you it'll be as if all the stars are laughing. you'll have stars that can laugh!... and it'll be as if i had given you, instead of stars, a lot of tiny bells that know how to laugh.
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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.
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Runny's nicpic one day runny babbit met little franny fog. he said, "let's have a nicpic down by the lollow hog." he brought some cutter bookies, some teanuts and some pea. and what did franny fog bring? her whole fog framily.
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I like the fog that creeps over the whole city every night about five, and the warm protective feeling it gives...and lights of san francisco at night, the fog horn, the bay at dusk and the little flower stands where spring flowers appear before anywhere else in the country...but, most of all, i like the view of the ocean from the cliff house.
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