Mirrors are there when we are and yet they never give anything back to us but our own image. Never, never shall we know what they are when they are alone or what is behind them.

Every man carries with him through life a mirror, as unique and impossible to get rid of as his shadow.

The image in the mirror was instantaneously transformed: suddenly it was a woman in her undergarments, a beautiful, distant, indifferent woman with a terribly out-of-place bowler hat on her head, holding the hand of a man in a gray suit and tie.

There was never yet fair woman but she made mouths in a glass.

All mirrors are magical mirrors, and we never see our faces in them.