I am fascinated by the beautiful who become deformed. Some become bitter, more bitter than those born less pulchritudinous. Most learn to cope with the loss. Some were blind to how much their beauty helped them, the halo of their hotness an invisible bumper softening life. But most cultivated this aspect to some degree. They knew what was up. But none were fully prepared for the anti-halo: the revulsion, the active disgust. They became monsters. This is what it means to be marred.

In 1715 England, none were more beautiful than Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, whose mind was as fine as her complexion. And she was a hero too in later life, advocating for inoculation after learning of it during her adventures in the Ottoman Empire. But in 1715, she learned what it is to lose beauty, as at the height of her bloom she contracted smallpox and was, consequently, pockmarked. Shortly after, she wrote Town Eclogues: Saturday; The Small-Pox, whose tragic protagonist remarks:

FLAVIA. THE wretched FLAVIA on her couch reclin'd, Thus breath'd the anguish of a wounded mind ; A glass revers'd in her right hand she bore, For now she shun'd the face she sought before.

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