Best 2110 quotes in «clothes quotes» category

Dress kinda tough-like ‘ya, I can handle toilets.’ Dress with authority over a toilet.

fabrics doesn't make exquisite dresses, it is the stitches.

Films, photos, books, clothes, music... it's all so simple at face value, but it has the incredible power to make us nostalgic for earlier eras we never grew up in.

Fashion doesn't make you perfect, but it makes you pretty.

Her mother always said that dressing properly could save one's life

Getting ready is that point in the day when the rivalry between the two needs is likely to peak, because we are making transition from being at home and pleasing ourselves (ego) to going out and having to conform to a series of norms an conventions (superego). We become less ego and more superego with each button we fasten

Gone are the days when girls used to cook like their mothers and boys used to dress like their fathers. Now girls drink like their fathers and boys dress like their mothers.

Her walk-in closet greeted me with the smell of lavender. Hanging rods held Chanel suits and sale-rack department store dresses side by side. Shelves displayed sweaters of every color from peach to cranberry. I brushed my hand over a pink sweater. The cashmere was soft as a cloud.

For the first time in her life, Jocelyn felt the hot shame of being underdressed for a party.

He had an image in his mind of a gaggle of long-necked geese, all done up in petticoats and crinolines, sitting around a stuffy parlor and talking about him.

He just took her mouth again, spun her again--twice and toward the bed. She considered putting up a fight, for form's sake, but just wriggled back enough to scowl at him. "I'm working." "Not yet, and you're mostly naked. Such a fine look on you, one of my favorites." "Then why is that closet full of clothes?" "Because being an understanding sort, I appreciate your insistence on being fully dressed in public.

Her profile as well as her stature and bearing seemed to gain the more dignity from her plain garments, which by the side of provincial fashion gave her the impressiveness of a fine quotation from the Bible,—or from one of our elder poets,—in a paragraph of to-day’s newspaper.

If we were rational enough to judge what we are fed based on what we are fed, those in the business of selling us hope (i.e., public speakers, presidents, priests, etc.) wouldn't wear suits.

He with the cleanest clothes isn’t necessarily the cleanest.

High heels are a short (theist) woman's (subconscious) way of telling God to go to hell … in public.

If black and white are too different and separate calories zebras wouldn't have both.

If we were not impressed by job titles, suits, and jargon, we would demand that financial advisors show us their personal bank statements before they tell us what we could or should do with our own money.

If the food that one ate the night before were somehow able to be seen and identified through one’s clothes throughout the day, millions of employees would each fast ten or so days before their payday.

If you use your clothes consciously they can become a way know yourself better and to live more consciously.

In his worn blue jeans and a black T-shirt, the early-morning sun hits Isaiah just right, highlighting him like he’s a relaxed tiger bathing in the warmth. The light glints off his double rows of hoop earrings and there’s a twinkle in his eyes that makes me feel like he has a secret, but not the type kept from me. No, it’s the type that suggests I’m in on it, and that it involves a lack of my clothes. And maybe some of his. As if I spoke the thought instead of keeping it internal, Isaiah lifts his shirt to scratch at a spot right above his hip bone. Good Lord, he’s pretty. I soak in the sight of the muscles in his abdomen like I’m a plant in the Sahara Desert, except it doesn’t quench my thirst. It only causes my mouth to run dry. Isaiah smiles like he knows what I’m thinking, and heat licks up my body and pools in my cheeks. What really causes my blood to curve into itself is the wicked gleam in his eye. It’s a spark that says he’s done very naughty things I’ve never even heard about.

I just think that particular brand of sexy isn't a woman's best weapon, and it's definitely not her only one. If you reduce yourself to that, then that's what people will see. They won't notice anything else about you.

I’m sorry about this,' she said to the dead woman, 'but I’m gonna need your clothes.

I have two wardrobes. One, the clothes I wear everyday, is made up mostly of dark denim jeans, black T-shirts, and, for special occasions, dress shirts. These clothes shroud my cowardice. These are the clothes I feel safe in. This is the armor I wear to face the world, and I assure you, armor is needed. I tell myself this armor is all I need. When I wear my typical uniform, it feels like safety, like I can hide in plain sight. I become less of a target. I am taking up space, but I am doing so in an unassuming manner so I am less of a problem, less of a disturbance. This is what I tell myself. My other wardrobe, the one that dominates most of my closet, is full of the clothes I don't have the courage to wear.

I’m turned on by women who are comfortable in their own skin; and I’m turned off by those who are uncomfortable in their own shoes.

In most women's lives, everything, even the greatest sorrow, comes down to a question of 'I haven't got a thing to wear'.

Is this how Julia Roberts' character feels like in Pretty Woman? Two parts princess, one part whore?

Is it always that way with men, that first burst of love or sex the thing that binds you? Do you always have to harken back to those first weeks when just the way he walked across a room made you want to take off all your clothes?

Love is friendship. Just with less clothes, which makes it far more brilliant.

It happened to some people, that obsession with throwing their clothes off at an age when it would be best to keep them on.

It's better to have fewer clothes, all wearable and each accessorized in your mind so that when you put something on you know at once which shoes and gloves you're going to wear. Complete costume planning is possible only with an intimate awareness of all your clothes.

It’s the invention of clothes, not nature, that made “private parts” private.

Los trajes no son otra cosa que símbolos de algo escondido muy adentro.

I've always made it a rule to have a suit for every day of the week. Perhaps you'll tell me I'm vain, but you'd be surprised if you knew what it had meant to me, at critical moments of my life, to be dressed exactly in accordance with my mood. It gives one such confidence, I think.

Men, she thought, were odd about their clothes: they liked to wear the same things until they became defeated and threadbare.

Lust, I suspect, wears repatent stilettos, that feather boa and not much else. Maybe glossy red lipstick.

May 1976. I have had some manure delivered for the garden and, since the manure heap is not far from the van, Miss S. is concerned that people passing might think the smell is coming from there. She wants me to put a notice on the gate to the effect that the smell is the manure, not her. I say no, without adding, as I could, that the manure actually smells much nicer. I am working in the garden when Miss B., the social worker, comes with a boxful of clothes. Miss S. is reluctant to open the van door, as she is listening to 'Any Answers', but eventually she slides on her bottom to the door of the van and examines the clothes. She is unimpressed. MISS S.: I only asked for one coat. MISS B.: Well, I brought three just in case you wanted a change. MISS S.: I haven't got room for three. Besides, I was planning to wash this coat in the near future. That makes four. MISS B.: This is my old nursing mac. MISS S.: I have a mac. Besides, green doesn't suit me. Have you got the stick? MISS B.: No. That's being sent down. It made to be made specially. MISS S.: Will it be long enough? MISS B.: Yes. It's a special stick. MISS S.: I don't want a special stick. I want an ordinary stick. Does it have a rubber thing on?

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.

My body screams to stride over to her, wrap my arms around her waist, kiss her until she’s drunk on me and slowly remove every article of clothing on her body.

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.

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

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 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.

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.

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

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.

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

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.

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

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.”