ABSTRACT
It was a bright April day. The light of the morning dawn pierced through a small hole in the shade and played upon the sleeping figure's closed eyelid. At first the man stirred, trying to avoid the light, but then one eye opened. It was inevitable. He had to discern the source and then observe it. Then Kant opened his right eye. All of a sudden the scene was different. The light seemed less intense. The armoire jutted out from the wall. The brass knobs jumped forward from the walnut veneer. Large tear-shaped drops of water stood ready atop the washbasin. Clearly there were the features of the room to which he gave more stature on the basis of his privileged two-eyed account. This trumped the perceptions of the fly and of the mouse—whatever their experience might be. Kant abruptly sat up.
