Quotes About Femininity

My mother, at sixty, is one of those classic beauties: all neck and cheekbones, sharp lines that hide her wrinkles from a distance. She still gets whistles from construction workers from three stories up.

I always do a lot of work around characters to make them real people because, oftentimes, they really are a sliver of a person. Even with truly wonderful writers, women characters are there to emote, and they're often incredibly chaste or worthy. Or they're a 'different type of woman', which is the worst.

Since my woman's world is perceived greatly through the emotions and the senses, I treat it that way in my writing - and am often overweighted with heavy descriptive passages and a kaleidoscope of similes.

But the pinkness and whiteness of underskirts and camisoles, the frilliness of foundation garments, the rustle about the bustle and the fuss about the bust.

She was the amoureuse of all the novels, the heroine of all the plays, the vague "she" of all the poetry books.

The hearts of women are like those little pieces of furniture with secret hiding - places, full of drawers fitted into each other; you go to a lot of trouble, break your nails, and in the bottom find some withered flower, a few grains of dust - or emptiness!

Elle se rappela les héroïnes des livres qu'elle avait lus, et la légion lyrique de ces femmes adultères se mit à chanter dans sa mémoire ...

Car, depuis trois ans, il l'avait soigneusement évitée par suite de cette lâcheté naturelle qui caractérise le sexe fort ; et Emma continuait avec des gestes mignons de tête, plus câline qu'une chatte amoureuse :

Woman is a vulgar animal from whom man has created an excessively beautiful ideal.

The essence of life is the smile of round female bottoms, under the shadow of cosmic boredom.

She was no longer the fair-haired, colourless girl whom I had seen at the church fifteen years before, but a stout, over-dressed lady, one of those ladies with no age, no character, no elegance, no wit, nor any of the attributes that constitute a woman. She was merely a mother, a fat, commonplace mother, the breeder, the human brood-mare, the procreating machine made of flesh, with no interests but her children and her cookery-book.

You only have to look at the Medusa straight on to see her. And she's not deadly. She's beautiful and she's laughing.

I, too, overflow; ... my body knows unheard-of songs.

I can't recall a single masculine figure created by a woman who is not, at bottom, a booby.

Our fathers were both rude and bold, And would not live like brothers; But we are of a finer mould - We're much more like our mothers!

Women are attracted to artists, of course, as they are to doctors and prisoners on death row. The powerful and the vulnerable. If you want to continue to get laid, particularly as you get older, that's where to head, boy.

and she put a wreath of white lilies round her hair, but every petal of the flowers was half a pearl;

Daisy wore a clingy black dress with a neckline so deep it could tutor philosophy.

Judith was a beautiful woman. She was petite with big round eyes and dainty, doll-like features. She looked younger than her years. There had been some work done—Botox, maybe a little something around the eyes—but it was tasteful, and most of her youthful appearance was due either to genetics or her daily yoga routine. Her figure still drew second glances. Men were drawn to her big-time—looks, brains, money—but if she dated, Maya didn't know about it. "I

this. Evil exists because an airheaded bimbo, who started life as a man's rib, got tricked into eating a piece of bad fruit by a talking reptile.

Female beauty gets to me. I don't think I'm alone in that. It gets to me like a work of art gets to me.

I've been kind of embracing my own power and really getting in touch with my inner goddess.

Every day now, I discover something new. Go through phases in which I feel much more in touch with my feminine side in ways I never thought possible. I'm letting the woman inside of me speak, the desires of this woman, speak as loud as they can.

In the 1900s, bleaching lotions and skin-lighteners were a female imperative no matter what her colour, often carrying suggestive names like 'Fair-Plex Ointment' and 'Black-No-More.' The tiniest touch of rouge was allowed, but only if applied with great subtlety.