My face looks like a wedding-cake left out in the rain.

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.

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.

God had given you one face, and you make yourself another. [Hamlet]

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 tartness of his face sours ripe grapes.

He had a face like a blessing.

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!

If I were two-faced, would I be wearing this one?

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