All the world knows me in my book, and my book in me.
Michel De MontaigneRead
Indeed, there is no such thing as an altogether ugly woman — or altogether beautiful.
Interpretation
Beauty and ugliness are subjective concepts without absolute definitions.
This quote by Michel De Montaigne suggests that our perceptions of beauty and ugliness are inherently flawed and subjective. There is no person who is entirely ugly or entirely beautiful, as these labels rely on individual opinions, cultural standards, and social contexts, emphasizing the complexity of human appearance and the relativity of aesthetic values.
In practice
During a discussion about self-esteem, this quote can highlight how perceptions of beauty are not absolute.
All the world knows me in my book, and my book in me.
All I say is by way of discourse, and nothing by way of advice. I should not speak so boldly if it were my due to be believed.
Pythagoras used to say that life resembles the Olympic Games: a few people strain their muscles to carry off a prize; others bring trinkets to sell to the crowd for gain; and some there are, and not the worst, who seek no other profit than to look at the show and see how and why everything is done; spectators of the life of other people in order to judge and regulate their own.
There is not much less vexation in the government of a private family than in the managing of an entire state.
Those who have compared our life to a dream were right... we were sleeping wake, and waking sleep.
Such as are in immediate fear of a losing their estates, of banishment, or of slavery, live in perpetual anguish, and lose all appetite and repose; whereas such as are actually poor, slaves, or exiles, ofttimes live as merrily as other folk.
The last function of reason is to recognize that there are an infinity of things which surpass it.
War is mankind's most tragic and stupid folly; to seek or advise its deliberate provocation is a black crime against all men.
If you're going to have a story, have a big story, or none at all.
If you want to be free, be free, because there's a million things to be.
Look, boys, it ever strike you that the world not real at all? It ever strike you that we have the only mind in the world and you just thinking up everything else? Like me here, having the only mind in the world, and thinking up you people here, thinking up the war and all the houses and the ships and them in the harbour. That ever cross your mind?
I suppose it is submerged realities that give to dreams their curious air of hyper-reality. But perhaps there is something else as well, something nebulous, gauze-like, through which everything one sees in a dream seems, paradoxically, much clearer. A pond becomes a lake, a breeze becomes a storm, a handful of dust is a desert, a grain of sulphur in the blood is a volcanic inferno. What manner of theater is it, in which we are at once playwright, actor, stage manager, scene painter and audience?
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