Quotes About Appearance

Clothes are inevitable. They are nothing less than the furniture of the mind made visible.

He's not so bad-looking," I said, and it was true: the conductor was tall and well made, with a strong jawline and heavy, masculine features. "Non, not so bad," said Bertrand, "but he is cruel. He call me names, he call my mother names, he insult my country—not even my country, but France, even though I try to explain—" "There's no point in trying to explain geography to that type.

Yes, I have actually mined coal, and distilled liquor, as well as seen a girl in a pink dress, and seen her take it off. I am 54 years old, weigh 220 pounds, and look like the chief dispatcher of a long-distance driving concern. I am a registered Democrat. I drink.

given the loose-fitting clothing of the time, perhaps a great deal of Zacchaeus would have been visible to the crowd below.

Did you know that wasn't me, the other Max?" I asked. "Yeah." "When?" "Right away." "How?" I persisted. "We look identical. She even had identical scars and scratches. She was wearing my clothes. How could you tell us apart?" He turned to me and grinned, making my world brighter. "She offered to cook breakfast.

I looked him up and down. There was a lot of "up" to look at. This kid was tall, all right.

I looked like a million bucks. An unarmed million bucks, which isn't necessarily the best combination.

They wanted them to look like the Gods. God doesn't look like this.

In such cases the imagination is undoubtedly its own doppelgänger, and sees nothing more than the projection of its own deceit. But I am puzzled, I confess, to explain the appearance of the first ghost, especially among men who thought death to be the end-all here below.

First: Spend at least six hours getting ready. Study yourself in the mirror at home. Is your hairdo media-friendly? Will your outfit read in black and white? Does your "look" inspire at least two clever sound bites?

Starched shirts and suits fresh from the cleaners' went a long, long way toward hiding a multitude of sins.

It's not about outward appearances but inward significance. A grandeur in the world, but not of the world, a grandeur that the world doesn't understand.

those guys who wore a wedding ring that didn't really look like a wedding ring—or maybe it wasn't a wedding ring at all and he was just super-proud of his Celtic

I tend to equate physical beauty with qualities with which it has absolutely nothing to do. I see a pretty mouth or a moody pair of eyes and imagine all sorts of deep affinities, private kinships.

She, I thought, was very beautiful, in an unsettling, almost medieval way which would not be apparent to the casual observer.

Beauty is a hard thing. Beauty is a mean story. Beauty is slender girls who die young, fine-featured delicate creatures about whom men write poems. Beauty, my first girlfriend said to me, is that inner quality often associated with great amounts of leisure time. And I loved her for that.

You might, without my crediting it, fall deeply in love and forever, with some warped hunchback whelped in the gutter. I should equally stop you from taking him.

She gave up combing her hair, which the salt air had reduced to a kind of scrim of brown hessian, and, lying down, proceeded to keep her fingernails short in the way Kate admired least. Then she overslept.

Julius rose to his feet. The towel dropped, showering cut brown hair over Monna Alessandra's elegant tiles. His hair, finely tailored, clung to a thick-boned face with slanting eyes and a blunt profile which would have looked well on a coin. Tobie, who had almost no hair, gazed at him sadly.

His hair soft as a nestling's, his eyes graceless with malice, Lymond was watching him in a silver mirror.

So this was Richard's brother. Every line of him spoke, palimpsest-wise, with two voices. The clothes, black and rich, were vaguely slovenly; the skin sun-glazed and cracked; the fine eyes slackly lidded; the mouth insolent and self-indulgent. He returned the scrutiny without rancour.

protested Mrs. Featherstone, a lady in her thirties, whose violently compressed figure suggested that she was engaged in a perpetual struggle to compute her weight in terms of the first syllables of her name rather than the last.

His long, amiable face looked as if it had generated spontaneously from his top hat, as white maggots breed from Gorgonzola.

She was a long-necked, long-backed woman, who disciplined her hair and her children. She was never embarrassed, and her anger, though never permitted to be visible, made itself felt the more.