Carmen Laforet (1921–2004)

I remember one night when there was a moon. My nerves were on edge after a day that had been too turbulent. When I got out of bed I saw in Augustias’ mirror my entire room was filled with the colour of grey silk, and in the middle of it, a long white shadow. I approached and the phantom approached with with me. At last I saw my own face in a blur above my linen nightgown. An old linen nightgown - made soft by the touch of time - weighed down with heavy lace, which my mother had worn many years before. It was unusual for me to stand looking at myself this way, almost without seeing myself, my eyes open. I raised my hand to touch my features, which seemed to run away from me, and what appeared were long fingers, paler than my face, tracing the line of eyebrows, nose cheeks conforming to my bone structure. In any case there I was, Andrea, living among the shadows and passions that surrounded me. Sometimes I doubted it.