Quotes about Faces

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A man's face is his autobiography. A woman's face is her work of fiction.

God had given you one face, and you make yourself another. [Hamlet]
If I were two-faced, would I be wearing this one?
Alas after a certain age, every man is responsible for his own face.
I never forget a face, but in your case I'll make an exception.
The eyes those silent tongues of love.
I think your whole life shows in your face and you should be proud of that.
The tartness of his face sours ripe grapes.
Every man over forty is responsible for his face.
Time engraves our faces with all the tears we have not shed.
What is a face, really? Its own photo? Its make-up? Or is it a face as painted by such or such painter? That which is in front? Inside? Behind? And the rest? Doesn't everyone look at himself in his own particular way? Deformations simply do not exist.
Wicked thoughts and worthless efforts gradually set their mark on the face, especially the eyes.
The face is the index of the mind.
It has been said that a pretty face is a passport. But it's not, it's a visa, and it runs out fast.
My face looks like a wedding-cake left out in the rain.
Tom's great yellow bronze mask all draped upon an iron framework. An inhibited, nerve-drawn; dropped face -- as if hung on a scaffold of heavy private brooding; and thought.
This face is a dog's snout sniffing for garbage, snakes nest in that mouth, I hear the sibilant threat.
Clowns wear a face that's painted intentionally on them so they appear to be happy or sad. What kind of mask are you wearing today?
The faces of most American women over thirty are relief maps of petulant and bewildered unhappiness.
Thus is his cheek the map of days outworn.
The faces that have charmed us the most escape us the soonest.
It is only at the first encounter that a face makes its full impression on us.
A man's face as a rule says more, and more interesting things, than his mouth, for it is a compendium of everything his mouth will ever say, in that it is the monogram of all this man's thoughts and aspirations.
The features of our face are hardly more than gestures which force of habit made permanent. Nature, like the destruction of Pompeii, like the metamorphosis of a nymph into a tree, has arrested us in an accustomed movement.
After a certain number of years our faces become our biographies. We get to be responsible for our faces.
What is your fortune, my pretty maid? My face is my fortune, Sir, she said.
That the public can grow accustomed to any face is proved by the increasing prevalence of Keith's ruined physiognomy on TV documentaries and chat shows, as familiar and homely a horror as Grandpa in The Munsters.
A face is too slight a foundation for happiness.
Was this the face that launched a thousand ships, and burnt the topless towers of Ileum?
We can see nothing whatever of the soul unless it is visible in the expression of the countenance; one might call the faces at a large assembly of people a history of the human soul written in a kind of Chinese ideograms.
The serial number of a human specimen is the face, that accidental and unrepeatable combination of features. It reflects neither character nor soul, nor what we call the self. The face is only the serial number of a specimen.
Our masks, always in peril of smearing or cracking, in need of continuous check in the mirror or silverware, keep us in thrall to ourselves, concerned with our surfaces.
Her face was her chaperone.
I am the family face; flesh perishes, I live on, projecting trait and trace through time to times anon, and leaping from place to place over oblivion.
The face of a child can say it all, especially the mouth part of the face.
A good face they say, is a letter of recommendation. O Nature, Nature, why art thou so dishonest, as ever to send men with these false recommendations into the World!
The human face is the organic seat of beauty. It is the register of value in development, a record of Experience, whose legitimate office is to perfect the life, a legible language to those who will study it, of the majestic mistress, the soul.
It has to be displayed, this face, on a more or less horizontal plane. Imagine a man wearing a mask, and imagine that the elastic which holds the mask on has just broken, so that the man (rather than let the mask slip off) has to tilt his head back and balance the mask on his real face. This is the kind of tyranny which Lawson's face exerts over the rest of his body as he cruises along the corridors. He doesn't look down his nose at you, he looks along his nose.
As a beauty I'm not a great star. Others are handsomer far; but my face -- I don't mind it because I'm behind it; it the folks out in front that I jar.
A man finds room in the few square inches of the face for the traits of all his ancestors; for the expression of all his history, and his wants.

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