In my youth, the vigil days, the days before the high feast days, were the most mysterious; they enchanted all expectations, and yet they placed everything into stillness, that which draws back into itself. The blue color of the chasubles on these days gathered everything into an inexplicable depth. The feast day itself seemed then almost as if empty and overly loud and drawn into the public eye. No one respected the vigil. Presumably because we can hardly measure how it is that all true and inviolable treasure of mortals rests in the unattained, in the granting of the ever-veiled gift.
— Heidegger, The Black Notebooks (tr. Capobianco)