"Notes and Comment
by E. B. White
The moon, it turns out, is a great place for men. One-sixth gravity must be a lot of fun, and when Armstrong and Aldrin went into their bouncy little dance, like two happy children, it was a moment not only of triumph but of gaiety. The moon, on the other hand, is a poor place for flags. Ours looked stiff and awkward, trying to float on the breeze that does not blow. (There must be a lesson here somewhere.) It is traditional, of course, for explorers to plant the flag, but it struck us, as we watched with awe and admiration and pride, that our two fellows were universal men, not national men, and should have been equipped accordingly. Like every great river and every great sea, the moon belongs to none and belongs to all. It still holds the key to madness, still controls the tides that lap on shores everywhere, still guards the lovers who kiss in every land under no banner but the sky. What a pity that in our moment of triumph we did not forswear the familiar Iwo Jima scene and plant instead a device acceptable to all: a limp white handkerchief, perhaps, symbol of the common cold, which, like the moon, affects us all, unites us all.
The Moon Hours
(The following pieces were written by various reporters.)
By 10 P.M. Sunday, twelve hundred people had gathered at the intersection of Sixth Avenue and Fiftieth Street, between Radio City Music Hall and the Time-Life Plaza. Rain had been falling since 7:30, and umbrellas shifted from side to side and poke up above heads, obscuring some people's view of the thing everyone was trying to watch—a fifteen-by-fifteen-foot screen, on which NBC's coverage of the moon landing was being shown in color. A large sign read "Life and nasa Present Apollo: Man to the Moon," and huge photographs of the three Apollo astronauts stood in windows of the Time & Life Building. To the north of the television screen, a full-scale model of the lunar module was shielded from the rain by a plastic canopy, and other equipment had been given protective covers. The intersection was brightly lighted—two searchlights played on nearby buildings—and at this hour the area was extremely noisy. The noise was a constant, high-level mixture of automobile engines, horns, police whistles (twenty policemen were patrolling the area), the shouts of benders (they moved through the crowd selling pennants, souvenir buttons, pretzels, and ice cream), the voices and beeps from the TV audio system, and the chatter of the people crowded on the sidewalks behind police barricades. But as the time for the astronauts' exit from the LM drew near, the crowd began to grow quiet. Anticipation was obvious in people's faces, and the talk became a sort of nervous undertone. At ten-fifteen, a newcomer—a young man carrying a pack on his back—approached a man in a blue jacket and said, "I presume they've got to the moon."
"You don't know?" the man in blue asked. "Where have you been all day."
"Just flown in. English," said the young man,
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https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/1969/07/26/comment-5238#:~:text=Notes%20and%20Comment,the%20young%20man%2C
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