Wherever man may go, by sea or land, under a pallid sun, or sky of flame, servant of God, or one of Cythera’s band, Croesus or beggar, woman of ill fame, citizen, scholar, tramp or countryman, whether his little head is dull or wise, each one stands in awe of what’s unknown and only dares look up with fearful eyes. Above, the sky! This cave wall bearing down, lit by a comic opera where each clown plays out his part, treading the bloodied clay. Hope of the hermit, dread of the dissolute: the sky! Black lid of the cooking pot…