The perfect human being is uninteresting-the Buddha who leaves the world, you know. It is the imperfections of life that are lovable.

What day is so festal it fails to reveal some theft?

All things are literally better, lovelier, and more beloved for the imperfections which have been divinely appointed, that the law of human life may be effort, and the law of human judgment, mercy.

People are crying up the rich and variegated plumage of the peacock, and he is himself blushing at the sight of his ugly feet.

The habit of looking for beauty in everything makes us notice the shortcomings of things; our sense, hungry for complete satisfaction, misses the perfection it demands.

The Fates, like an absent-minded printer, seldom allow a single line to stand perfect and unmarred.

O me! for why is all around us here As if some lesser god had made the world, But had not force to shape it as he would?

The visible imperfections of hand-wrought goods, being honorific, are accounted marks of superiority in point of beauty, or serviceability, or both.

There is no deformity But saves us from a dream.