I found this translation of a Sor Juana poem somewhere but made no note of the translator:
I am not at all what you think
What you've done is attribute to me
a different nature with your pens,
a different talent with your lips.
Borne on your feather-pen's plumes,
my flight is no longer mine;
it's not as you like to imagine,
not what your fancy depicts.
We do have ideas about other people which have nothing to do with who they think they are, often have nothing to do with who they really are.
F.N. Spindler wrote in The Sense of Sight:
Our standard image of a human being is that of a person about ten feet away.
Guy Davenport (who died the other day) wrote:
Psychology is the policeman of the bourgeoisie, enforcing middle-class values with as bogus a science as alchemy or palm-reading. Foucault was right on this point.