Quotes About Scar

My father has the "settler's scar," a pink star scored into the brown leather of his palm by the handle of the moldboard plow.

All of this seems as though it were yesterday, or forever ago, in that crevasse between space and time that stays fixed in the imagination. I remember it all because I remember it all. In crisis with someone you love, the dialogue is as burnished as a scar on a tree.

Now Odysseus was sitting close to the fire, but suddenly turned to the dark side; 390 for presently he thought in his heart that, as she handled him, she might be aware of his scar, and all his story might come out. She came up close and washed her lord, and at once she recognized that scar, which once the boar with his white tusk had inflicted on him, when he went to Parnassos, to

A scar had been beaten into his mind which would only heal by experience.

There. Maybe if you're lucky, you'll get a scar! That's what you want, isn't it?

She watched with morbid fascination as they gathered at the stumps at the ends of the man's wrists, the old scar tissue the only place on him unclaimed by Fener, but the paths the sprites took to those stumps touched not a single tattooed line. The flies dance a dance of avoidance - but for all that, they were eager to dance.

Healing should never be separated between the flesh and the sense of the flesh. It's hard to explain. The Denul Warrens involve every aspect of healing, since damage, when it occurs, does so on all levels. Shock is the scar that bridges the gap between the body and the mind.

The scar around an old wound feels nothing." "To feel nothing is not a virtue.

When I was a kid, I was at a bowling alley and I ran into a soda machine. I still have the scar on my right eyebrow obviously.

But there's a story behind everything. How a picture got on a wall. How a scar got on your face. Sometimes the stories are simple, and sometimes they are hard and heartbreaking. But behind all your stories is always your mother's story, because hers is where yours begins. So this was my mother's story. And mine.

But there's a story behind everything. How a picture got on a wall. How a scar got on your face. Sometimes the stories are simple, and sometimes they are hard and heartbreaking. But behind all your stories is always your mother's story, because her is where yours begins. So this was my mother's story. And mine.

Scar tissue had formed a knot on the bottom of his foot. He inspected the writing frequently—PROPERTY OF THE ALACRÁN ESTATE—but the scar had sliced through the tiny lettering. It was more difficult to make out the words.

It's illegal in the U.S., but I had it done in Mexico. They break the floating rib in the back and push it in, so there's no scar.

He was right, after all; it didn't leave a scar, though part of me wishes it had. At least I'd have some evidence, some justification of this permanence. Stains are even worse when you're the only one who can see them.

She'll always carry that scar." "She will, only if you do.

But then Mason touches my neck, to the spot on it where the cut from that night has since healed, and I pull away. He was right, after all; it didn't leave a scar, though part of me wishes it had. At least I'd have some evidence, some justification of this permanence. Stains are even worse when you're the only one who can see them.

I may remember you, Scarlet," he bellowed, backing up when she grabbed her fork and held it out like a dagger. She'd murdered men with less. Even immortals. "But you haven't haunted me." Motions stiff, he raised his shirt. Amid the cuts, above his heart, was a tattoo of eyes. Dark eyes. Like hers. "Don't you see? You…haven't…haunted…me.

As we walked back to the scar, I turned to him. "You should give up and let your mane grow out." "Mm-hm. And then we can stay up late, and you can braid it, and put ribbons in it . . ." "Don't you want to show off your pretty hair, Goldilocks?" "I'll show you hair." I raised my eyebrow. "Is that supposed to be some kind of threat?" "Wait and you'll find out.

dishonor is like a scar on a tree, which time, instead of effacing, only helps to enlarge. Mencius

His scar?" My skirt was heavy with blood, pooled between my thighs, seeping slowly through the cotton. It tickled when it dripped onto my skin, into my pubic hair, over the labia. I was not wearing underwear. You remember. "He never would tell me." "That fucking Malloy." He laughed. "He ruptured his appendix when he was a kid

I wear glasses, have a big scar, I sing loud, and I am blond. I'm sorry!

He gently kissed that scar and felt something changing inside him - just a flutter of change, there and gone, but leaving its mark.

Do you know what it means to have a wound that never heals?

That is what indices are like, of course. Not the fan-shaped spread of rice bursting from a gunnysack. Not the thunder roll of barrels of turpentine cascading down a plank. And not a seventeen-year-old girl with a tree-shaped scar on her knee—and a name. History is percentiles, the thoughts of great men, and the description of eras. Does the girl know that the reason that she died in the sea or in a twenty-foot slop pit on a ship named Jesus is because that was her era?