Best 2110 quotes in «clothes quotes» category

New clothes left Sylvia reeling with happiness. For Sylvia, a shopping list was a poem. She always shopped alone - it suited her deliberate nature and the artistic joy with which she approached all things aesthetic.

Newsflash she already has body image issues.  It's an intrinsic part of being a woman. Every woman in the world has some part of herself that she absolutely hates.  Her hands are too small, her feet are too big, her hair is too straight, too curly, her ears stick out, her bums too flat, her nose is too big and, you know, nothing you can say will change how we feel.  What men don't understand is, the right clothes, the right shoes, the right makeup it just... It, it hides the flaws we think we have.  They make us look beautiful to ourselves.  That's what makes us look beautiful to others. Used to be all she needed to feel beautiful was a pink tutu and a plastic tiara. And we spend our whole lives trying to feel that way again.

No man ever stood the lower in my estimation for having a patch in his clothes; yet I am sure that there is greater anxiety commonly to have fashionable, or at least clean and unpatched clothes, than to have a sound conscience. [...] I sometimes try my acquaintances by such tests as this,--Who could wear a patch, or two extra seams only, over the knee? Most behave as if they believed that their prospects for life would be ruined if they should do it [...] for he considers, not what is truly respectable, but what is respected.

Not every poor or unemployed person who has one wears a political party’s t-shirt to reveal their political affiliation; some use it merely to conceal their nipples.

One sip of this wine and you will go mad with drunkenness. You will drop your masks and tear your clothes — destroying everything that separates you from the Lover. Once you taste the fruit of this vine, you will be kicked out of the city of yourself. You will forget the world. You will forget yourself. I tell you: you will become a madman who wanders the streets looking for the Lover once you drink this Wine of Love.

Of course, Moomintrolls don't wear clothes, except sometimes in bed.

One of the fundamental rights of mankind should be that of wearing as many or as few clothes as one likes inside one's own home.

our mission does not consist in our appearance, a beautiful haircut or in showing off our body, decorations and clothes

Possible outfits rolled in her head like a slot machine in Atlantic City.

Purple, blue, green, yellow, orange, and red light up their dreams though they’re just cloth and thread.

Prostitutes are paid for taking their clothes off. Celebrities are paid for putting others' clothes on.

Poverty has deceived many of us into believing that some people who are in that state love the food, clothes, places, and people that they do not even like. The same can be said about wealth.

Prep clothes are sensible: rain clothes keep you dry; winter clothes keep you warm; collars are buttoned down so they don't flap in your face when you're playing polo. Layering is a natural response to varying weather conditions.

She was never without dark glasses, she was always well groomed, there was a consequential good taste in the plainness of her clothes, the blues and grays and lack of luster that made her, herself, shine so.

Red Carpet Events:Sitting on the couch and watching people who actually chase their goals and dreams; criticizing what they’re wearing… and wondering why we’re depressed.

She's also wearing pants now. Because I'm a dick.

Reading books is like wearing winter clothes; it covers and warms up the body of your naked soul.

Right as I go to kiss Echo, someone knocks on the door. Damn it all to hell. “Go away!” “Be nice! It’s probably housekeeping.” Echo shoves at my chest and while she doesn’t have enough strength to push me away, I drop back like a domino, and she hops out of bed. “Be right there,” she calls out, then she lowers her voice to address me. “We’re lucky we didn’t get kicked out last night over the clothes.” “We?” I repeat. “I’m not the one clogging hotel filters with boxer shorts.” She pins me with a glare. I turn onto my side and prop my head up on my hand, deciding to enjoy the show of Echo hot as hell and strutting across the room. Spaghetti-strapped tank top and boy shorts that show a hint of her ass. On second thought... “You may want a robe if you’re going to open that door.” Hell, a shirt would help. “I’m going to crack it open to tell them that we’re still sleeping.” “We’re eighteen and in a hotel. Did you want them to laugh?” Her face turns red, and she shushes me. Damn, she’s going to answer the door like that. I roll off the bed and grab a pair of jeans. “Let me. My luck it’ll be the maintenance guy, then he’ll be stalking you for the rest of the trip.” Echo sticks her tongue out at me, but steps back to let me by. “Be nice.” My lips tilt up as I rub my thumb against her cheek. “I’m always nice.”

She was having a violent reaction against beautiful clothes and the slavery they impose on one, her experience being that the instant one had got them they took one in hand and gave one no peace till they had been everywhere and been seen by everybody. You didn't take your clothes to parties; they took you. It was quite a mistake to think think that a woman, a really well-dressed woman wore out her clothes; it was the clothes that wore out the woman- dragging her about at all hours of the day and night.

She wore trousers, because skirts were stupid, and boots, 'cuz stuff needed to be kicked.

Shirts and jeans litter the asphalt, the empty fabric limbs askew as if they're attempting to escape. Blood smears Sarah's lips as she struggles against the chest of a dirty looking man with a beard. Terror. Terror is the only word my mind can seize on and it forgets what it means. I forget how to think - to move.

Some clothes provoke more feelings in me than people.

So Lucille pressed the button, and a panel slid open in the wall, and the transporter came through, and sure enough here was the bare butt of the client waiting to be whipped. For reasons best known to himself he had kept his shoes and socks on, so he was wearing well-polished black loafers and black silk socks.

Sometimes I wonder, that one missing sock after doing laundry, is the smart one. After being unhappy for so long, it finally walks away from a frayed, worn-out relationship.

Some people are sexier and some are sexy only when they are dressed.

Sometimes broken shoes and tattered clothes can tell us beautiful stories!

So what was Jonah like before high school? As a kid?” “As a kid?” Hallelujah brings up the picture in her mind. “He was . . . sweet, I guess. Dorky. He’d wear these outfits his mom picked out—pleated khaki pants and polo shirts, with his hair slicked down with gel. And he would get really enthusiastic about things. Too enthusiastic. He went through this cowboy phase where he wore a cowboy hat and boots to school every day. Didn’t care what anyone thought.” The mental image makes her smile. “And he and Luke were best friends?” “Starting in middle school, yeah. They played soccer together.” “Huh.” Rachel pauses. “So when did Jonah get cute?” “He was still pretty short in middle school. And skinny. But he did start dressing better.” “No more pleated khakis?” “No more pleated khakis. And then the summer before ninth grade, he had this growth spurt. And he started to, uh, fill out. So I guess ninth grade is when I noticed . . .” Hallelujah fades off. “This is embarrassing.” “No, it’s not. This is what girls talk about.” Rachel grins. “Besides. I wanted to see if you were paying as close attention to him as he was to you.” “I didn’t realize I was. We were just friends.” “You can be friends and still objectively notice someone’s cuteness.

Some women wear a miniskirt to reveal their thighs; some wear one to conceal their age.

Stringham said: 'If you're not careful you will suffer the awful fate of the man who always knows the right clothes to wear and the right shop to buy them at.

The heart of a man is a small thing but it desires great matters. It is not big enough for a dog’s dinner but the whole world is not big enough for it. Man spares nothing that lives; he kills to feed himself, he kills to clothe himself, he kills to adorn himself, he kills to attack, he kills to defend himself, he kills to instruct himself, he kills to amuse himself, he kills for the sake of killing. From the lamb he tears its guts and makes his harp resound; from the wolf his most deadly tooth to polish his pretty works of art; from the elephant his tusks to make a toy for his child.(...)And who will exterminate him who exterminates all others?

Swankiness get noticed but style get remembered.

Sylvia’s inherent appreciation for beauty as both artist and consumer is evident in her journals and letters…….she wrote beautifully about clothes. She wrote about them with irony and wit mixed in with all the rococo prettiness.

The clothes you're wearing, the room, the house, the city that you're in. Everything in it started out in the human imagination. Your lives, your personalities, your whole world. All invented. All made up. All the wars, the romances. The masterpieces and the machines. And there's nothing here but a funny little twist of amino acids, playing a marvelous game of pretend.

The outfit, tight in places, and loose in some, says as much in the buttons as it does in cuffs.

The next time you are heading out the door, pause at the mirror and make sure that what you see reflects your purpose and value. That doesn’t mean donning the burka, but it probably doesn’t mean having words on your butt either.

The most beautiful things you can wear are your self-confidence and your self-love.

The passion of the collector when confronted with a rare item, the enthusiasm of a hunter who sees a fine, handsome beast, can give us no idea of the tremendous love of clothes in some women.

There is no such thing as bad weather, only bad clothes.

There is no reason to have something taking up space in your closet that does not make you feel good. These items must go. Perhaps you like to torture yourself by trying on some jeans from a few years ago to see if you can button them. Clothes do not exist to humiliate their owners. Please do not force garments into performing psychological tasks for which they were not designed.

This outfit makes me want to get my nose pierced and spend some time at the tattoo parlor,” I said, frowning at the clothing. “Hey, we can make that happen,” Nessa, joked. “That’s very funny, Nessa,” I said as I pulled out the knee high black combat boots and black fishnet stockings to match. “It is better than the plaid cowboy shirt and Wranglers they got me,” Noah said, as he held up the outfit complete with worn leather cowboy boots. “Oh, Nessa, we will pay you back dearly for this,” I said sarcastically.

They say clothes don’t maketh the man, does wearing none get you anywhere in life?

There’s a pulse in my body, vibrating every pressure point. “I like kissing you.” His hand lowers to my waist. “I could kiss you forever.” I lazily glance at him from under my eyelashes. “Just kissing.” Because I think I’ll combust if we do more. The right side of his mouth quirks. “Just kissing. And some touching.” To prove his point Isaiah’s hands caress my back, weave into my hair and slide against the dip of my waist. Yes, definitely some touching. I inhale deeply, reminding myself that breathing is still a requirement. “I agree. Some touching. No new clothes off.” Because I’d probably pass out at the thought of his jeans off. They already hang low on his hips. Too low. Very low. Low enough that I start to imagine what more there is to him. Isaiah wraps his hand around the back of my neck and performs this deep massage that makes my eyes roll into my head in ecstasy. “I’ll put my shirt back on if you want.” “No,” I breathe out. “I’m fine with it off.” More than fine.

There were days when I still put on make up in case you’d come back, but I wear the same clothes and shower in the rain and eat when I can and sleep when I can, which is rare and not often, so if you’d see me now on these streets where I once imagined walking with you you’d have a hard time recognising me. I takes a lot to run away.

Trying to educate the dumb with a dumb teacher is nothing but washing the dirty clothes in a dirty water!

True, in her gown she had a fuller figure—but cltohes make some things smaller, some things bigger.

Torn clothes are funny … until your dad gets fired.

Wearing: shorts + a jersey = a visual oxymoron.

Wallis," said his master dreamily when his man appeared again, "I want some more real clothes. Tired of sleeping-suits. Get me some, please. Good night.

Wear red and just be silent, don’t even whisper by yourself; you will see that you will be heard easily because red always speaks on behalf of you! By wearing red, you give your tongue and voice to red colour!

Wear your attitude!