“Consciousness even in my sleep changes primary colors.
The features of my face melt like a wax doll in the fire.
And who can consent to see in the mirror the mere face of man?”

“Who sees the human face correctly: the photographer, the mirror, or the painter?”

“I want to confess as best I can, but my heart is void. The void is a mirror. I see my face and feel loathing and horror. My indifference to man has shut me out. I live now in a world of ghosts, a prisoner in my dreams.”

“Yet in my lineaments they trace
Some features of my father's face.”

“I glance reflections of my face everyplace I go, in my mirror and in shop windows, like the lead in my own show. Do I dare look closely? See each wrinkle, scar and flaw?”

“Teaching at best beckons us to morality, but it is not in itself efficacious. Teaching is like a mirror. It can show you if your face is dirty, but it the mirror will not wash your face.”

“They erase my face with a layer of pale makeup and draw my features back out.”

“Colors, like features, follow the changes of the emotions.”

“We always feel younger than we are. I carry inside myself my earlier faces, as a tree contains its rings. The sum of them is me. The mirror sees only my latest face, while I know all my previous ones.”

“And a quick glance in the mirror turns out to be a mistake. Oh God, is that my face?”