To be oneself, simply oneself, is so amazing and utterly unique an experience that it’s hard to convince oneself so singular a thing happens to everybody in the world, and is amenable to statistics.
What is a face, really? Its own photo? Its make-up? Or is it a face as painted by such or such painter? That which is in front? Inside? Behind? And the rest? Doesn’t everyone look at himself in his own particular way? Deformations simply do not exist.
The skies are painted with unnumber’d sparks, they are all fire and every one doth shine; but there ‘s but one in all doth hold his place.
