Her skin was the color of white jade.  Or maybe it was the color of a summer peach.  Or maybe I am only remembering my mother as another classical tale, all those phrases about ladies with voices as pretty-sounding as lutes, skin as white as jade, their gracefulness flowing like calm rivers.  Why did stories always describe women that way, making us believe we had to be that way too?

Amy Tan, The Kitchen God's Wife