The furies are at home in the mirror; it is their address. Even the clearest water, if deep enough can drown. Never think to surprise them. Your face approaching ever so friendly is the white flag they ignore. There is no truce with the furies. A mirror’s temperature is always zero. It is ice in the veins. It’s camera is an x-ray. It is a chalice held out to you in silent communion, where gaspingly you partake of a shifting identity never your own.
Reflections by R. S. Thomas, No Truce With The Furies
You have to be born a sex symbol. You don’t become one. If you are born with it, you will have it even when you are 100 years old.