Pretty?' I said, swivelling in the driver's seat to face him, 'you want to ask me out because I'm pretty?' 'Is there a problem with asking you out because you're pretty?' 'I think you blew it, ' said Tiger with a grin. 'You should be asking her out because she's smart, witty, mature beyond her years and every moment in her company makes you want to be a better person - pretty of face should be at the bottom of the list.' 'Oh, blast, ' said Perkins despondently. 'It should, shouldn't it?
-I don't know that thin and pretty is what Nat is supposed to be, though. Does that make any sense?" If she'd been holding on to any illusions about how much she liked Vince Grasso-not lusted for him, which she also did-that last speech would have cinched it. "It makes perfect sense. She's beautiful in her own way, but pretty is something... else. And I've had friends who were really pretty-it didn't always help them all that much.' "Yeah, " he said. "My wife was pretty, and she was miserable her whole life. I just want my girls to be happy. Be themselves, you know, whatever it is.
She was still glad she looked like Scully. He wasn't pretty either, but pretty people weren't the kind you need. Pretty people saw themselves in the mirror and were either too happy or too sad. People like Billie just shrugged and didn't care. She didn't want to turn into anyone pretty. Anyway, she had scars now, you only had to look.
I never felt pretty. I don't feel pretty now. I'm not a pretty person. I don't like pretty. So I don't feel badly. And I think it worked out well, because I found that all the girls I know who got by on their looks, as time went on and they faded, they were nothing. And they were very disappointed. When you're somebody like myself, in order to get around and be attractive, you have to develop something, you have to learn something, you have to do something. So you become a bit more interesting.
And now here he was in my kitchen. Smelling like apple pies and looking at me with a direct seriousness that made him even cuter. The bruising spreading up the side of his face had halted, and under it he was very pretty. Not jock-pretty, or the hurtful kind of pretty that tells you a guy is too busy taking care of his royal self to think about you.
If you can't be pretty, you have to learn to make yourself attractive. I found that all the pretty girls I went to high school with came to middle age as frumps, because they just got by with their pretty faces, so they never developed anything. They never learned how to be interesting. But if you are bereft of certain things, you have to make up for them in certain ways. Don't you think?
I would think that the drumstick is probably pretty good. Because you can put that anywhere. If you are a strong guy, you can put it in the throat, the nose, the mouth, the ear. It's also easily concealed. The guitar is pretty good, but you have to break it. And that's pretty difficult.
Something happened during Matt's talk. When I sat down I was one person, but by the time he was done, I was someone else. Someone changed. Someone new. Someone I didn't know. My arms were covered in gooseflesh. My stomach was doing this buoyant, top-of-the-roller-coaster thing. Suddenly I wanted to be pretty. I wanted guys to think I was pretty. In particular, I wanted this guy to think I was pretty...
Anybody can look at a pretty girl and see a pretty girl. An artist can look at a pretty girl and see the old woman she will become. A better artist can look at an old woman and see the pretty girl that she used to be. But a great artist-a master-and that is what Auguste Rodin was-can look at an old woman, protray her exactly as she is... and force the viewer to see the pretty girl she used to be... and more than that, he can make anyone with the sensitivity of an armadillo, or even you, see that this lovely young girl is still alive, not old and ugly at all, but simply prisoned inside her ruined body. He can make you feel the quiet, endless tragedy that there was never a girl born who ever grew older than eighteen in her heart... no matter what the merciless hours have done to her. Look at her, Ben. Growing old doesn't matter to you and me; we were never meant to be admired-but it does to them.
Robert A. Heinlein
Fly away, pretty moth, to the shade Of the leaf where you slumbered all day; Be content with the moon and the stars, pretty moth, And make use of your wings while you may. . . . . But tho' dreams of delight may have dazzled you quite, They at last found it dangerous play; Many things in this world that look bright, pretty moth, Only dazzle to lead us astray.
Thomas Haynes Bayly
You [President Kennedy] have made some pretty strong statements about their being defensive and that we would take action against offensive weapons. I think that a blockade and political talk would be considered by a lot of our friends and neutrals as being a pretty weak response to this [the Cuban missile crisis]. And I'm sure a lot of our own citizens would feel that way too. In other words, you're in a pretty bad fix at the present time.
I felt Alec's glare so I turned to look at him and smiled when I found him all but drilling holes into me with his eyes. "If looks could kill, I'd be dead, " I joked. "My pretty eyes won't harm you, don't worry." Conceited much? "Did you just call your own eyes pretty?" Alec devilishly grinned then and it made me slightly uneasy. "No, you said I have pretty eyes." Was he high? "Are you in your right mind? I have never said you have pretty eyes-" "Yes, you have. Right before you fell asleep. You said I have pretty eyes." I felt my face heat up. It was the shite he gave me to knock me out that said that, not me! "Did I say anythin' else?" I murmured. Alec leaned in close to me and whispered is a slow, seductive voice, "You said you like my voice, my abs, and my ass." I audibly gasped. "I did not!" Alec snickered. "You did." I was mortified, absolutely mortified! "I hate you right now.
I looked at her, with her hair spilled out on the pillows and the warmth of her body warming mine. And I thought, god-dang, if this ain't a heck of a way to be in bed with a pretty woman. The two of you arguing about murder, and threatening each other, when you're supposed to be in love and you could be doing something pretty nice. And then I thought, well, maybe it ain't so strange after all. Maybe it's like this with most people, everyone doing pretty much the same thing except in a different way. And all the time they're holding heaven in their hands.