It’s not so much the story in Par Lagerkvist’s The Dwarf as how he develops the dwarf’s perspective, that, as a dwarf, there is no way to be disguised, especially to oneself.
I live only my dwarf life. I never go around tall and smooth-featured. I am myself, always the same. I live one life alone. I have no other being inside me. And I recognize everything within me, nothing ever comes up from my inner depths. Nothing is there shrouded in mystery.