Ugliness
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Copyright © 2023 Carl Hanser Verlag GmbH & Co. KG, München
Translation copyright © 2025 Elisabeth Lauffer
All rights reserved. Except for brief passages quoted in a newspaper, magazine, radio, television, or
website review, no part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or
mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage and retrieval
system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
The translation of this work was supported by a grant from the Goethe-Institut.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Hilal, Moshtari
[Hässlichkeit, English]
Ugliness/Moshtari Hilal; translation by Elisabeth Lauffer.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-1-954404-28-1
Library of Congress Control Number 2024938163
I. Germany—Nonfiction
This is a book about images. The images in our heads, on our faces, behind
our eyes, on our tongues. It is also a book about our gaze—the way we look
at things and the way others absorb that gaze, and the way these looks
become part of our bodies. This book is about seeing and being seen. This
book is about the hatred (Hass) in ugliness (Hässlichkeit) and about the
outer limit and opposite of beauty. It begins with me and ends in us all.
CONTENTS
I. HATRED
II. NASAL ANALYSIS
III. WOLF-GIRL
IV. THE UNDEAD
V. RECONCILIATION
Works Cited
Illustration Credits
I. HATRED
Hey, horseface,
where do you get off
using my face to
grin so sweetly?
That’s not what I looked like
brushing my hair that morning.
That wasn’t me.
I had laid out my clothes the night before,
color-coordinated,
with a practiced expression
and shy mouth.
Where do you get off
using my face to
grin so sweetly?
Now, give us a smile.
The photographer at our school
summons my smile.
Give us a smile,
and I smiled.
Where do you get off
using my face to
grin so sweetly?
I remembered the first YouTube comment
I ever got, the comment
that made me delete my first video:
Hey, horseface.
Where do you get off
using my face to
grin so sweetly?
I saw myself
in fourteen passport-photo-sized rectangles
and they gazed back.
It was exactly as A. had spelled it out for me in the school hallway:
crooked teeth,
long face, big
nose.
At fourteen I learned fourteen times over
that I’m ugly.
Fourteen someones making a face in my place
on the sheet of photos in my mother’s hand.
Was my smile
a distortion, or did it
leave me exposed?
We’re not keeping these, I told my mother.
I don’t need this picture, and I never
want to see it again. And I never
want this picture to see me.
My mother closed the envelope
that held my fourteen
grimacing faces.
She placed it folded up in her dresser:
That’s my darling daughter.
An ugly child only a mother could love.
I dig up that photo for this book.
I search in vain
for an ugly horseface.
All I find is the picture of a child
flashing her teeth,
smiling for what will be the last time
in fourteen years.