From my Radcliffe diary:

September 29, 1989

There was a circular prism of light on the inside of my office building door this morning, about five inches in diameter. I wondered where it came from. I looked around briefly: nothing in the hallway, no windows, no crystal chandelier. Second time through I figured it out. There’s a peephole in the door. The sunlight was beaming through it at such an angle as to hit the mirror at the other end of the hallway and refract back to the door as a magnified circle of coloured light—an accident of rainbow.

I am that peephole, I am that mirror. I am the peephole through which light shines, on a clear day, at the right time, at an appropriate angle, and meets with the mirror, that is, connects with an audience, the ultimate connector, reflector. My mirror beams back that eye-hole of light, enlarged, magnified, prismatically amplified to colour and illumine — not the world, but at least a small, dark hallway. So we shed light, or rather, let light pass through us, unimpeded but affected nonetheless by the mote in our eye.