Sailor Neptune Quotes

Maybe you misunderstood.. A world without Haruka isn't a world worth saving. - Michiru/Sailor Neptune

You’re so unfair, Michiru…To leave into your own world…Don’t leave me alone…-Haruka Tenoh/Sailor Uranus

The Bane ...where coxswain's dirt and seaman's shirts brushed bawdily upon her chest...

the song consisted of an invocation to Neptune, chanted by a single leader and repeated in chorus, with a rhythm so sweet and well balanced that it imitated the regular movement of the sailors bending to their oars and the oars beating the water.

The ivory images of the gods that followed were applauded by their particular devotees: Neptune by sailors, Mars by soldiers, Apollo and Artemis by soothsayers and hunters, Minerva by craftsmen, Bacchus and Ceres by drunks and countryfolk in town for the day. Venus and Cupid were cheered by all - who could be so dull as to deny ever being touched by any aspect, physical or otherwise, of love?

What is the sea for the man who has loved and left her? She is fire-water, whisky, rum, a roric flame. She is a green-eyed witch; she speaks in tongues. Her coral rings are forged of skeletons; her white shoulders glisten with the dust of powdered bones. She is memory, the number of numbers, the eye of the world, the mirror of the sea. What is the ocean for the sailor who has loved and left her? The one lover who dissolves the night. A bottomless glass of moonshine. And sailors? All sea-talkers. The sons of mermen.

In the popular anime series Sailor Moon, characters Uranus and Neptune are portrayed as cousins in the English dubbed translation. In the original Japanese, they are written as lovers.

Burdens grew heavier the higher one ascended in rank. Captains concerned themselves with ships and crews, commodores with squadrons, task force commanders with objectives, and theater commanders with campaigns. The burdens of sailors weighed mostly on the muscles. The weight of leadership was subtler and heavier. It could test the conscience.

When transports carrying survivors of the Battle of Savo Island finally returned home, the men were sent to quarantine, removed from public circulation. They had stories to tell that Admiral King would be quite happy not to see in the newspapers. Some five hundred survivors of the Astoria, Vincennes, and Quincy were held under virtual house arrest in a barracks that had been constructed on Treasure Island for the 1939 World’s Fair. Marines were detailed to prevent the sailors from leaving. “Don’t you say one word about the battle,” they were told.

On his visit to Henderson Field, Hanson Baldwin of The New York Times had sniffed out the latter story, as well as the torpedoing of the North Carolina. Though he itched to file stories, he saw a larger need. American readers certainly deserved to know the truth about Savo. The question was whether it put sailors at risk in the continuing fight. Baldwin wrote a series of stories, including an account of Savo as he had learned it on the beaches of Guadalcanal and the decks of warships. His eventual accounts withheld the number of ships sunk, their names, and the vulnerabilities that resulted in their loss. “I fudged this very carefully because I realized it was very important that the Japs not know exactly how damaged we were.

When it was all said and done at Guadalcanal, three sailors would die at sea for every infantryman who fell ashore.

On one occasion when an artillery shell whistled overhead, some sailors from LST-75 who had been sent ashore to help unload a nearby LCT took shelter against the cliff. They were standing there when the beach master came over to ask them what they were supposed to be doing. They explained about unloading the LCT, and the beach master told them: “Well then, get the hell over there and unload it, or pick up one of these rifles and get up the hill and start shooting them damn Germans.” Given that choice, they decided the stevedore work was preferable.

What is the sea for the man who has loved and left her? She is fire-water, whisky, rum, a roric flame. She is a green-eyed witch; she speaks in tongues. Her coral rings are forged of skeletons; her white shoulders glisten with the dust of powdered bones. She is memory, the number of numbers, the eye of the world, the mirror of the sea. What is the ocean for the sailor who has loved and left her? The one lover who dissolves the night. A bottomless glass of moonshine. And sailors? All sea-talkers. The sons of mermen.

Those were fire hydrants I messed with, which means the cult of Neptune’s going to be pissed,” she said. “Cult of Neptune?” “London Fire Brigade,” she said. “The London Fire Brigade are worshippers of the god Neptune?” “Not officially, no,” she said. “But you know—sailors, Neptune, it’s a natural fit.” “The Fire Brigade are sailors?” “Not now,” she said. “But in the old days, when they were looking for disciplined guys who knew about water, ropes, ladders and didn’t freak out at altitude. On the other hand, you had a lot of sailors looking for a nice steady career on dry land—marriage made in heaven.