Look into the mirror. The face that pins you with its double gaze reveals a chastening secret: You are looking into a predator's eyes.
He used this great, sad, motionless face to suggest various related things: a one-track mind near the track's end of pure insanity; mulish imperturbability under the wildest of circumstances; how dead a human being can get and still be alive . . .
No foreign sky protected me, no stranger's wing shielded my face. I stand as witness to the common lot survivor of that time, that place.
Sometimes just a smile on our face can help to make this world a better place.
When you say a situation or a person is hopeless, you are slamming the door in the face of God.
I think your whole life shows in your face and you should be proud of that.
Time engraves our faces with all the tears we have not shed.
There are mystically in our faces certain characters which carry in them the motto of our souls, wherin he that cannot read A, B, C may read our natures.
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.
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.
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.
There are quantities of human faces, but there are many more faces, for each person has several.
The tartness of his face sours ripe grapes.
A man's face is his autobiography. A woman's face is her work of fiction.
