And your very flesh shall be a great poem.

The enlightened man says: I am body entirely and nothing beside.

O flesh, flesh, how art thou fishified!

One’s body, hair, and skin are a gift from one’s parents—do not dare to allow them to be harmed.

Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels.

The features of our face are hardly more than gestures which force of habit has made permanent.

The world is made of the very stuff of the body.

I know I have the body but of a weak and feeble woman, but I have the heart and stomach of a king.

If I had the use of my body I would throw it out of the window.

Every man must descend into the flesh to meet mankind.

My face looks like a wedding cake left out in the rain.

The body says what words cannot.

What are men anyway but balloons on legs, a lot of blown-up bladders?