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It is naive to believe that our image is only an illusion that conceals our selves, as the one true essence independent of the eyes of the world. The imagologues have revealed with cynical radicalism that the reverse is true: our self is a mere illusion, ungraspable, indescribable, misty, while the only reality, all too graspable and describable, is our image in the eyes of the master. First you try to paint it yourself, then you want at least to influence and control it, but in vain; a single malicious phrase is enough to change you forever into a depressingly simple caricature.
Milan Kundera, Immortality, 1990

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