You should regard each meeting with a friend as a sitting he is unwillingly giving you for a portrait - a portrait that, probably, when you or he die, will still be unfinished. And, though this is an absorbing pursuit, nevertheless, the painters are apt to end pessimists. For however handsome and merry may be the face, however rich may be the background, in the first rough sketch of each portrait, yet with every added stroke of the brush, with ever modification of the chiaroscuro, the eyes looking out at you grow more disquieting. And, finally, it is your face that you are staring at in terror, as in a mirror by candlelight, when all the house is still.
Could it be that this house is haunted?I'm face to face with shapeless shadow,Though I stand alone.Could it be that there's a presenceInside this house,Besides my own?The garden fades from green to grey,The fading focus of Goodbye.I let out a sigh.I swallow the urge to cry.Out of this house and onto the street...Vacant, empty spaces in the faces I meet.Anywhere on earth, Any time of day,The echoed sound of all I say,Of all I hear and in all I see...Shadows,Phantom faces,Not haunting places. Haunting ME.
They were different colors: the right one blue, the left green. And her face in the light of the candle on the table startled me at first, just as it had in the icy night air. After seeing it on the street, I was afraid I had only imagined it: a still, luminous face with a silvery sheen. Finely hewn, with a long, straight nose and a wide mouth, it was nearly identical to another face, which I had photographed years before. Not on a person, bu on the fragment of a frieze I found in some ruins near Verona, The frieze, which depicted a band of musicians, had once been shadowed beneath a cornice high on the temple of Mercury, god of magic. Belonging to one of the musicians, it was a riveting face - like a puzzle that could not be solved - which I had never found, or expected to find, on a living woman.