Quotes About Beauty

It was one of those perfect New York October afternoons, when the explosion of oranges and yellows against the bright blue sky makes you feel like your life is passing through your fingers, that you've felt this autumn-feeling before and you'll probably get to feel it again, but one day you won't anymore, because you'll be dead.

My shell collection Here are my shells, orderly to the eye, mysterious to the mind. Some are rough and grainy, others are soft and pearly. Mine are all empty, but out in the sea there are empty ones too – as many as there are full. When the creatures emerge, they leave part of themselves behind. That is why I think of these spirals as living though they are asleep in their forms.

Imagine a sunset, lavender and red / as battered morals . . .

You might not notice the moon very much. White and silent, it shines a cold light that is merely a ghost of the beloved day.

He told her the flowers in her painting contained exactly the purple substance of the flowers on the desk in front of her [...] Let us open the window and see if your painting can entice the butterflies.

Life conspires to plant us in the funniest of gardens where the trees need an especial form of tending

O, beautiful rainbow; — all woven of light! There's not in thy tissue, one shadow of night; Heaven surely is open when thou dost appear, And, bending above thee, the angels draw near, And sing, — "The rainbow! the rainbow! The smile of God is here."

Your hair is an act of God.

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Because there's nothing more beautiful than the way the ocean refuses to stop kissing the shoreline, no matter how many times it's sent away.

My world was the size of a crayon box, and it took every colour to draw her

Oh, Brother. No matter your wreckage. There will be someone to find you beautiful, despite the cruddy metal. Your ruin is not to be hidden behind paint and canvas. Let them see the cracks.

In all the known realms of this earth, only the queens of Weirandale had hair of that color: the cerulean blue of the icy Nargis River—the blue of a blue tanager.

Back in the gurdwara, the ceiling doing strange things above my head, Jungli fed me with pieces of orange. Our outspoken attachment deepened. I was moved by his tenderness, his simplicity and his beautiful eyes. Beauty is a great robber of my common sense.

I've weeded out some past conditioning that dictates my preferences and prejudices; right now these people are as beautiful as I make them, things are as scary as I allow them to be, and as ugly and nasty as I create them. The world's a beautiful place.

once more, I am flat out on a slab of oolitic limestone, absorbing the dusk leaking blue through its tall net of branches

God is so great that He can work with humans like us—and still produce beauty. Beauty from ashes! Focus not on your failures, but on Christ's faithfulness.

Inner beauty can fade, too.

Some things are so horrible they need to be hidden right after they become visible. They are too horrible to be seen except very slowly, or in very small amounts. Or they are too beautiful.

His beauty is outrageous.

If you insist that people witness your beauty, they'll watch it closely until it's gone.

In the morning I wake amid fading scenes of different characters, different settings, all restatements of that first desire, a ghost who haunts me as the beauty he was at sixteen.

They write songs about California girls for a reason.

It is a rose planted in your heart, and as it's thorns tear you, so does it thrive and flower