For quite some time did I sit by a meekly whirring fan, trying to understand the writings of Husserl – who, if one is not familiar with, writes in a tremendously difficult, but also tremendously delicate, fashion. I imagine that the latter quality is what gave birth to the former. Anyhow, as I collected the papers and turned to leave, I did not realize that the fan was still whirring behind me. So immersed in the writings had I gotten that the wind began registering itself as a natural breeze. I suppose that is the demand of philosophy; that to understand the works of men possessed of such fine thoughts, one must have his focus set entirely on the metaphysical edifice before him; to observe so intently the pillars and panes holding it up as to forget about everything else.