Subjects — F
Every European visitor to the United States is struck by the comparative rarity of what he would call a face, by the frequency of men and women who look like elderly babies. If he stays in the States for any length of time, he will learn that this cannot be put down to a lack of sensibility — the American feels the joys and sufferings of human life as keenly as anybody else. The only plausible explanation I can find lies in his different attitude to the past. To have a face, in the European sense of the word, it would seem that one must not only enjoy and suffer but also desire to preserve the memory of even the most humiliating and unpleasant experiences of the past.
My face looks like a wedding-cake left out in the rain.
I have eyes like those of a dead pig.
People remain what they are even if their faces fall apart.
It is the common wonder of all men, how among so many million faces, there should be none alike.
It has been said that a pretty face is a passport. But it’s not, it’s a visa, and it runs out fast.
When matters are desperate we must put on a desperate face.
A blank helpless sort of face, rather like a rose just before you drench it with D.D.T.
The eyes those silent tongues of love.
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.