Does such a thing as "the fatal flaw," that showy dark crack running down the middle of a life, exist outside literature? I used to think it didn't. Now I think it does. And I think that mine is this: a morbid longing for the picturesque at all costs.
You've still got your inner world — a world that's more real. That's why you're different from the rest of us: you have your secret garden; to which you can retire and lock the gate behind you.
T.S. Eliot, from "The Confidential Clerk" in The Complete Poems and Plays of T. S. Eliot
She was 𝑏𝑒𝑎𝑢𝑡𝑖𝑓𝑢𝑙, but not like those girls in the magazines. She was beautiful, for the way she thought. She was beautiful, for the sparkle in her eyes when she talked about something she loved. She was beautiful, for her ability to make other people smile, even if she was sad. No, she wasn't beautiful for something as temporary as her looks. She was beautiful, deep down to her 𝑠𝑜𝑢𝑙.