As the last tinge of sunset fades and a flock of geese flies over, the moon rises unscathed from the branches of a hawthorn.

Into an economy of desires, the arrogance of the days, the compromises and complacencies, is introduced a silver light, a delicate stream of irony.

To come out of the house, to come out of yourself, to be subtle, clear, extensive, cold, is the moon's invitation.

You will find a clear path through the beech wood, scented with the leaves of wild garlic and lit by the wild garlic flowers.

Darkness is not closed but open.

The impatience with which we seek the confirmations of light is a flight from information brought by all the senses to the evidence of the eyes alone.

Those objects which by day presented hard surfaces to the light by the light of the moon take on their proper density.

In a yellow rectangle, in the black fa?ade of a house, a woman is laying a table.

Only when you forget the night, when you sleep through it or repress the memory of its distances, will the days appear to be an uninterrupted sequence.

By moonlight, in the far meadow of an old legend, oak trees dance and standing stones walk down to the river to drink.

The lines and limits, the defining edges, which the eye abstracts from a landscape, dissolve and merge by moonlight into masses and tones.

Everything we habitually recognise and dismiss, we are able to meet again.

Walls, trees and hills which all day have kept their distance, at night become presences that gather around.

You can walk out into the moonlight and hear a sonata for piano and oboe.

In ten paces you may come to ten places.

Since trepidation is only a step away from wonder, it is not wrong to hesitate.

When you see a new moon, uncover your head, turn over the penny in your pocket, and lay yourself open for inspection.

Anything that is secretly glad comes under the auspices of the moon.

Constant vigilance would be a parody of attention, a fullness without phases, an inability to put the self to sleep.