Where there are many beauties in a poem I shall not cavil at a few faults proceeding either from negligence or from the imperfection of our nature.
No good work whatever can be perfect, and the demand for perfection is always a sign of a misunderstanding of the ends of art.
I don't need to be so full of myself that I feel I am without flaw. I can feel beautiful and imperfect at the same time. I have a healthy relationship with my aesthetic insecurities.
Indeed, some kitsch seems to be flawed by its very perfection, its technical virtuosity and its precise execution, its explicit knowledge of the tradition
She had perfect features, with her eye, nose, lips, and ears the right size and in right places. That is all it takes to make people beautiful, normal body parts – yet why does nature mess it up so many times?
In writing, as in life, faults are endured without disgust when they are associated with transcendent merit, and may be sometimes recommended to weak judgments by the lustre which they obtain from their union with excellence; but it is the business of those who presume to superintend the taste or morals of mankind to separate delusive combinations, and distinguish that which may be praised from that which can only be excused.
The problem with cosmetic surgery is that people who have it can only see how they look in the mirror. They don't realise how weird they look from other angles. I particularly hate the injections that puff out the face, which are hideous.
You know when people overdo it... and their breasts are way too large or they overdo their face, I mean, that's what gives plastic surgery a bad name.
