“Look how black the sky is, the writer said. I made it that way.”

“As I looked out into the night sky, across all those infinite stars, it made me realize how insignificant they are.”

“...and I went into the garden and lay down and looked at the stars in the sky and made myself negligible.”

“Look at the sky. It’s not dark and black and without character. The black is, in fact deep blue. And over there: lighter blue and blowing through the blues and blackness the winds swirling through the air and then shining, burning, bursting through: the stars! And you see how they roar their light. Everywhere we look, the complex magic of nature blazes before our eyes.”

“...to look at the stars always makes me dream, as simply as I dream over the black dots of a map representing towns and villages. Why, I ask myself, should the shining dots of the sky not be as accessible as the black dots on the map of France?”

“Stars, everywhere. So many stars that I could not for the life me understand how the sky could contain them all yet be so black.”