|The birthday of the Infanta by Oscar Wilde, from A house of pomegranates|
This might be my earliest memory of being sucked into a story, especially an image—the Dwarf's first gaze at the mirror, discovering that the Princess' love for him is only a mockery of his ugliness.
"But why will he not dance again?"
"Because his heart is broken."
"For the future let those who come to play with me have no hearts."