Where is the point from which we say “I see”? We begin with our eyes (“all eyes,” we say), and we watch. We become spectators, those who watch, and who are defined by that act alone. The act is old, but each perception is new, and each is individual: “I see,” I say, not someone else. Do others see indeed? What do they see? Turn to your left, to your right; enquire, and arguments abound. Believe your eyes, we say: I do, of course, but do I believe yours? There's the rub — and I rub my eyes; the problem vexes. No spectacle provides its spectators with an identical experience. I close my eyes; the spectacle dissolves, yet a vision persists: persistence of vision, we say. Yet how can I see what someone else has seen, if the eyes that saw are gone, if the spectacle they saw is gone? Your eyes, his eyes, those eyes long dead and gone — can I believe them? How does the vision persist?