Quotes About Appearance

Nothing about me ever seemed good enough. And there was this sadness inside me - this hopelessness. Focusing on my physical appearance was at least easier than trying to address the internal shit. I could control the external - at least, to a point. I could buy different clothes, or cut my hair, or whatever. The pit opening up inside me was too frightening to even look at.

Some people always look respectable, I thought, and some people never do. Give Doll a bath, a haircut, a shave, a manicure, dress him in a thousand-pound suit, and he'd still look unwashed and somehow unsavoury. You couldn't clean off his past.

The vulgar crowd always is taken by appearances, and the world consists chiefly of the vulgar.

There is nothing more important than appearing to be religious.

They looked like good people, but deep down they were pieces of shit. They often found they way into politics, and they talked about God, family values and country. They were the new cavaliers of the Catholic culture.

For the great majority of mankind are satisfied with appearance, as though they were realities and are often more influenced by the things that seem than by those that are

Men in general judge more by the sense of sight than by the sense of touch, because everyone can see but few can test by feeling. Everyone sees what you seem to be, few know what you really are; and those few do not dare take a stand against the general opinion.

It wasn't that they were all pretty, but they were all attractive; they'd obviously taken endless trouble over their appearance, playing up any good feature and being clever about the remainder, and it was really delightful to walk down a street past this moving frieze of faces and figures, each of which seemed to have its own cunning distinction. They

He was neither good looking nor ugly, and while he would not have turned a young girl's head, someone older might have been struck by his face and the evidence of passion which had left its traces. ~p17

My name is Tomlyn. I am very beautiful. Marshall says I am spiteful and wicked and a barbarian to boot. He's jealous of my thick grey fur, my white chin and breast, and the snowy end of my tail. I suppose he can't help being envious, the great rusty-black thing! He's got a big, blunt beak, and stubby wings, and tiny little eyes... He's old and stupid and a coward; with an endless flow of long words that he can't possibly understand.

It doesn't look poor. The place looks

I was not jealous of his intelligence — he is entirely superficial, which is why he never knows what to look like. Or what music to make. Or whether to be a boy or a girl.

What kind of car did Michael Honeycutt, banker, drive? What did he look like, how did he sound? I wanted to see him, to weigh the fabric of his suit, smell his cologne, judge his haircut, watch his body language, listen to the way he shaped his vowels.

She was wearing a hacking jacket and turtleneck, a riding hat tricked under her left arm. I wondered what the photo opportunity had been, and why she looked happy. She hated houses. Her hair was dark honey streaked with grey and cut in a soft, chin-length bob. It looked all wrong; my mother had had long hair for as long as I could remember. She had gained a few pounds. She looked younger and softer.

I have a strange kind of face; people trust me. More than that, they see in my face what they want to be there.

Her bright red lipstick couldn't hide the fatigue in her smile.

Hild unpinned her sleeves to show arms tan and tight as a stripling's wore a light cloak in royal blue flung back from her shoulder gesith-style, and tucked her hair behind her ears, to remind them of fighting man with greased-back hair

Gwaldus tugged at her collar again. She looked nothing like Hereswith. She was at least two years older, half a hand shorter. Her eyes were grey-green, and her hair would be paler when washed. Her whole body would be paler. Her nipples were more pink than red.

She looked at him, at his sly eyes and stubbled tonsure.

She looked nothing like that young wife, and nothing like the men with hair on their faces. Her mother's hair, almost, but not her eyes.

Breguswith's eyes were hard, bright blue, with none of that milky aging Hild saw in Æffe's and Brugen's eyes.

It shines and it gleams, but is not what it seems.

The most ominous of modern perversions is the shame of appearing naïve if we do not flirt with evil. (La más ominosa de las perversiones modernas es la vergüenza de parecer ingenuos si no coqueteamos con el mal.)

Gold gives an appearance of beauty even to ugliness: But with poverty everything becomes frightful.