How beautiful she is! Poor mirror, it must be tormenting-it is good that you don't know jealousy. Her head is perfectly oval; she tilts a little , thereby accentuating her forehead, which rises pure and proud without any delineation of the powers of understanding. Her dark hair rings her forehead softly and gently. Her countenance is like a fruit; every angle fully rounded; herskin transparent, like velevt to the touch-that I can feel with y eyes. Her eyes-yes, I have not even seen them; they are hidden by lids armed with sliken fringes that are bend like barbs, dangerous to anyone who whises to meet her glance. Her head is a Madonna head, purity and innocence its mark. She is bowed down like a Madonna, but she is not lost in contemplation of the One; this causes the expression in her face to vary. What she is contemplating is multiplicity, the multiplicity over which earthly pomp and glory cast a reflection. She takes off her glove to show to the mirror and me a right hand as white and shapely as that of an ancient statue, without any ornaments, not even a flat glod ring on the fourth finger-bravo! She raised her eyes-how changed everything is, and yet the same-the forehead a little less high, the face a little less high, the face a little less uniforlmy oval but more vital.

Søren Aabye Kierkegaard

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