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It was quite impossible to describe. here is what it looked like. it looked like a piano sounds shortly after being dropped down a well. it tasted yellow, and it felt paisley. it smelled like the total eclipse of the moon.
-Terry Pratchett
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It Was Quite Impossible To Describe. Here

Terry Pratchett
It was quite impossible to describe. here is what it looked like. it looked like a piano sounds shortly after being dropped down a well. it tasted yellow, and it felt paisley. it smelled like the total eclipse of the moon.
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Moon Piano Yellow

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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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Filming 'eclipse' - eclipse was my favorite book so i was really excited to start filming the movie. i just love that it's the height of the love triangle. 'twilight' develops edward and bella's relationship, 'new moon' develops jacob and bella's and in 'eclipse,' the three of them are physically together.
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It's no fun to be yellow. maybe i'm not all yellow. i don't know. i think maybe i'm just partly yellow and partly the type that doesn't give much of a damn if they lose their gloves. one of my troubles is, i never care too much when i lose something - it used to drive mother crazy when i was a kid. some guys spend days looking for something they've lost. i never seem to have anything that if i lost it i'd care too much. maybe that's why i'm partly yellow. it's no excuse, though. it really isn't. what you should be is not yellow at all.
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The reappearance of the crescent moon after the new moon; the return of the sun after a total eclipse, the rising of the sun in the morning after its troublesome absence at night were noted by people around the world; these phenomena spoke to our ancestors of the possibility of surviving death. up there in the skies was also a metaphor of immortality.
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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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I’m frightened of eggs, worse than frightened; they revolt me. that round white thing without any holes, and when you break it, inside there’s that yellow thing, round, without any holes… brrr! have you ever seen anything more revolting than an egg yolk breaking and spilling its yellow liquid? blood is jolly, red. but egg yolk is yellow, revolting. i’ve never tasted it.
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