Outside show is a poor substitute for inner worth.
Nobody looks like what they really are on the inside. You don’t. I don’t. People are much more complicated than that. It’s true of everybody.
On one level, I am a total softie, sort of depressed and afraid of losing the people I love or failing them. To disguise that, there's all this harsh, poop-centric, external swagger, full of nastiness. I'm a cloaking device.
There some trifles well habited, as there are some fools well clothed.
From my hair to my toes to my nails. Everything's fake. Everything! Even my heart is fake.
Never compare your insides to everyone else's outsides.
Conventionality is the tacit agreement to set appearances before reality, form before content.
I learned a long time ago not to judge people by what they look like, sound like, or by the clothes they wear. Just because a house is nice and shiny out front doesn’t mean it’s not rotting on the inside. (Kyrian)
There's no point in being complete on the outside when you're broken in the inside.
We can never see who someone really is underneath the skin.
I have heard of your paintings too, well enough; God has given you one face, and you make yourselves another.
A fop takes great pains to hang out a sign, by his dress, of what he has within.
Clothes are nothing more than a fig leaf. And the bodies beneath are just another layer of clothing, an outfit of flesh with an impractically thin leather exterior, in various shades of pink, yellow and brown. The souls alone are real. Seen in this way, there can never be any such thing as social unease or shyness or embarrassment. All you need do is greet your fellow soul.
Where's the superficial? I was, and therefore am, dim, gloomy, a drag, unfashionable, unfanciable, and awkward. This doesn't seem like superficial to me. These aren't flesh wounds. These are life-threatening thrusts into the internal organs.
All visible objects, man, are but as pasteboard masks. But in each event — in the living act, the undoubted deed — there, some unknown but still reasoning thing puts forth the mouldings of its features from behind the unreasoning mask.
I was then at the height of my two-facedness: that is, outside I seemed one way, inside I was another; outside false, inside true.
One must have deeper motives and judge everything accordingly, but go on talking like an ordinary person.
