Quotes About Beauty

and though she was not beautiful her calmness had the magnetic pull of beauty—a stillness so powerful that the molecules realigned themselves around her when she came into a room.

and I think of what Hobie said: beauty alters the grain of reality.

aristo poetika'da der ki,'' dedi henry, ''ceset gibi gerçekte görmesi rahats?z edici ÅŸeyler sanat eserlerinde bakmaya doyulmayacak manzaralara dönüÅŸebilir.

beauty has to be wedded to something more meaningful. Only what is that thing? Why am I made the way I am? Why do I care about all the wrong things, and nothing at all for the right ones? Or, to tip it another way: how can I see so clearly that everything I love or care about is illusion, and yet—for me, anyway—all that's worth living for lies in that charm?

a scrap of seventeenth-century sunlight compressed into dots and pixels

La muerte es la madre de la belleza. —¿Y qué es la belleza? —El terror.

Si tenemos un alma lo bastante fuerte, podemos arrancarnos el velo y contemplar cara a cara la desnuda y terrible belleza; dejar que el dios nos consuma, nos devore, nos quiebre los huesos. Y luego nos escupa renacidos.

And beauty is terror,' said Julian, 'then what is desire? We think we have many desires, but in fact we have only one. What is it?' 'To live,' said Camilla. 'To live forever,' said Bunny, chin cupped in palm.

But even that day, there on the porch, with Charles beside me and the smell of wood smoke in the air, it had a quality of a memory; there it was, before my eyes, and yet too beautiful to believe

Beauty is terror. Whatever we call beautiful, we quiver before it. - The Secret History

crazy," she'd said, "but I'd be perfectly happy if I could sit looking at the same half dozen paintings for the rest of my life. I can't think of a better way to go insane.")

Y eso es lo que hacen todos los grandes maestros. Rembrandt. Velázquez. Lo último de Tiziano. Construyen la ilusión, el truco…, pero te acercas un paso más y se desintegra en pinceladas. Abstracto, como de otro mundo. Una clase de belleza totalmente diferente y mucho más profunda. Es y no es.

Because—the line of beauty is the line of beauty. It doesn't matter if it's been through the Xerox machine a hundred times.

I waited, uncertainly, my eyes on the Japanese chest. It was a beauty, a prize for a retired sea-captain's home in backwater Boston: scrimshaw and cowrie shells, Old Testament samplers cross-stitched by unmarried sisters, the smell of whale oil burning in the evenings, the stillness of growing old.

I looked at Camilla, her face bright in the sun, and thought of that line from the Iliad that I love so much, about Pallas Athene and the terrible eyes shining. And if beauty is terror, said Julian, then what is desire? We think we have many desires but in fact we only have one. What is it? To live said Camilla To live forever said Bunny, chin cupped in palm The teakettle began to whistle.

Whatever we call beautiful, we quiver before it

living things don't last—it's all temporary. Death in life. That's why they're called natures mortes. Maybe you don't see it at first with all the beauty and bloom, the little speck of rot. But if you look closer—there it is.

they grew dark and foamy in the cool.

Death is the mother of beauty, said Henry. And what is beauty? Terror. Well said, said Julian. Beauty is rarely soft or consolatory. Quite the contrary. Genuine beauty is always quite alarming.

She was a masterpeace of composure; nothing ever ruffled her or made her upset, and though she was not beatiful her calmness had the magnetic pull of beauty – a stillness so powerful that the molecules realigned themselves around her when she came into a room.

And just as music is the space between notes, just as the stars are beautiful because of the space between them, just as sun strikes raindrops at a certain angle and throws a prism of color across the sky...

And the flavor of Pippa's kiss—bittersweet and strange—stayed with me all the way back uptown, swaying and sleepy as I sailed home on the bus, melting with sorrow and loveliness, a starry ache that lifted me up above the windswept city like a kite: my head in the rainclouds, my heart in the sky.

Beauty alters the grain of reality.

Beauty is terror. Whatever we call beautiful, we quiver before it. And what could be more terrifying and beautiful, to souls like the Greeks or our own, than to lose control completely? To throw off the chains of being for an instant, to shatter the accident of our mortal selves?