A Face (n.) is the one thing of mine that others know and I don't.
A Face (n.) of one's own is seen as one feels one's body, through a dumb, organic sense.
A Face (n.) sinks below the monkey when looked at too long, to the fringe of the vegetable world, the level of jellyfish.
A Face (n.) loses eyes, nose and mouth when pressed against the mirror, and becomes a geological embossed map, a lunar world, yet familiar.
A Face (n.) is outspoken and frank, but the tender, abstract soul of the humanist will never let itself be touched by the sense of a face.
A Face (n.) in Anny is not an expression but a mask changed suddenly, as the actors of antiquity changed masks, each one destined to give tone to what follows.
A Face (n.) of one's own has no direction, while the faces of others have some sense, and calling it handsome or ugly is like calling a clod of earth beautiful.
A Face (n.) of the experienced man is deserved because he has never lost a chance to exploit his past — stuffed it full, used it on women and children.
The Face (n.) in facial contamination is the familiar face you cannot place — because it is two faces, the bank clerk's and the policeman's at the crossroads, present one through the other.