Memoirs of a Midget by Walter de la Mare — Read

Am I sorry that almost beside myself with this new affliction, and bewildered and frightened by the incessant coming and going of strangers in the house, I refused to be carried down to bid that unanswering face goodbye? No, I have no regret on that score. The older I grow the more closely I seem to understand him. If phantoms of memory have any reality -- and it is wiser, I think, to remember the face of the living rather than the stony peace of the dead -- he has not forgotten his only daughter.

Double-minded creature I was and ever shall be; now puffed up with arrogance at the differences between myself and gross, common-sized humanity; now stupidly sensitive to the pangs to which by reason of these differences I have to submit. At times I have been tempted to blame my parents for my shortcomings. What wicked folly -- they did not choose their only child. After all, too, fellow creatures of any size seem much alike. They rarely have nothing to blame Providence for -- the length of their noses or the size of their feet, their bones or their corpulence, the imbecilities of their minds or their bodies, the "accidents" of birth, breeding, station, or circumstance. Yet how secure and perhaps wholesome is Man's self-satisfaction. To what ideal does he compare himself but to a self-perfected abstraction of his own image? Even his Venus and Apollo are mere flattering reflections of his own he- or she-shapes. And what of his anthropomorphic soul?