Originally published on Stúdentablaðið, December 4, 2020
“It was December 31, New Year’s Eve, when the unnamed little girl who sold matches for a living walked barefoot through frosty snow, winding her way through the city’s narrow streets and alleyways. Her body shivered in the cold breeze. She could see light shining through the windows and Christmas trees, presents piled excessively beneath their branches. She could smell roasted goose nestled among apple slices. She heard laughter from families gathered together.
She had sold no matches and dared not go home that night, afraid that her father would give her a beating. But then again, what difference would it make? Her living conditions were so precarious, with the wind blowing right through the cracks into her room, that she would hardly be any warmer there.”
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Reflections on the ‘Little Matchgirl’ (1845) & Our Perverted World