Pliny's neighbor, the widower Mrs Klein, pulled open the curtains and felt the light stream in. It was difficult to discern whether it was a beautiful warm day or a beautiful cold day. It was early autumn and temperatures played tricks on the human elements.
She'd long quit any fretting in regards to the phenomenon of color. When her mother was teaching her to read, she would point at a picture of a forest and say, "Look at the green tree! The leaves are green!" And she knew that trees were trees because their had their forms, and she knew it was green because her mother had said so.
Her mother pointed at an apple and said. "Look at the red apple! The apple is red!" And she knew it was an apple because the apple has its own distinctive shape, from bud to stem. And it was red because her mother said so.
"Look at the sky! How blue is it!" her mother had said, sweeping her arms wide, and she knew the sky was up and it was blue because her mother said so.
Mrs Klein never knew it in the all of her life, but she could not register conventional color at all. The world existed in only two shades and the gradations in between. For Mrs Klein, life was a silent movie with sound.
Eighty years Mrs Klein's lived.
And she will die never knowing the truth about colors.