Despite Debussy and Chirico (or perhaps in part because of them — search “moonlight” in the archives), I have always been wary of the moon, or more precisely, the “man in the moon.” One night, I looked up into the night sky to gaze at the bright moon but instead it seemed to be looking intently at me. “What are you staring at?” it demanded. “First you stared at the finger pointing to the moon, until at last you learned to look instead to what the finger pointed. Now you are staring at the moon, instead of looking at what the moon is illuminating.” I looked away, reproved. About me were the trees, the contour of the landscape against the night sky, the stars in cold silent heavens. I looked down at the ground before me, the flowers, rocks, my hands and fingers. I could see all these things, pale and incandescent, in the moonlight.