Quotes About Beauty

Still the Amaltas bloomed, a brilliant, defiant yellow. Each blazing summer it reached up and whispered to the hot brown sky, Fuck You.

Poetry, music and literature, he believed, ought not to be interrupted by the banality of war.

A bee died in a coffin flower.

She wasn't beautiful in the way Bombay Silk was, but she was sexier, more intriguing, handsome in the way some women can be.

White-walled once. Red-roofed. But painted in weather-colors now. With brushes dipped in nature's palette. Mossgreen. Earth-brown. Crumbleblack

When the last soldier has gone, the people climb over the debris of the burnt house. The tin sheets that were once the roof are still smouldering. A scorched trunk lies open, flames still leaping out of it. What was in it that burns so beautifully?

She speaks the most beautiful Urdu.

Her collarbones like wings spread from the base of her throat to the ends of her shoulders. A bird held down by skin. — Arundhati Roy, The God of Small Things . (Random House April 22, 1997)

He folded his fear into a perfect rose... She took it from him, and put it in her hair.

What we need are people who are prepared to be unpopular. Who are prepared to put themselves in danger. Who are prepared to tell the truth. Brave journalists can do that, and they have. Brave lawyers can do that, and they have. And artists—beautiful, brilliant, brave writers, poets, musicians, painters, and filmmakers can do that. That beauty is on our side. All of it.

It hadn't changed, the June Rain. Heaven opened and the water hammered down, reviving the reluctant old well, greenmossing the pigless pigsty, carpet bombing still, tea-coloured puddles the way memory bombs still, tea-coloured minds. The grass looked wetgreen and pleased. Happy earthworms frolicked purple in the slush. Green nettles nodded. Trees bent.

The hollow, knobbled calf was pink, like proper calves should be. (When you re-create the image of man, why repeat God's mistakes?)

The grass looked wetgreen and pleased. Happy earthworms frolicked purple in the slush. Green nettles nodded. Trees bent.

For all her stunning looks, she was a brutal interrogator who often exceeded her brief because she was exorcizing demons of her own.

with her pale Irish skin, her blushes stood out.

DeLois lived up the block on 142nd Street and never had her hair done, and all the neighbourhood women sucked their teeth as she walked by. Her crispy hair twinkled in the summer sun as her big proud stomach moved her on down the block while I watched, not caring whether or not she was a poem.

I am Black because I come from the earth's inside Now take my word for jewel in the open light. Audre Lorde

How the young attempt and are broken differs from age to age We were brown free girls love singing beneath our skin sun in our hair in our eyes sun our fortune and the wind had made us golden made us gay.

Even for years afterward white people would stop me on the street or particularly in Central Park and ask if I was Odetta, a Black folksinger whom I did not resemble at all except that we were both big Black beautiful women with natural heads.

You're very beautiful," I said suddenly, embarrassed at my own daring. There was a moment of silence as Eudora put down her hammer. "So are you, Chica," she said, quietly, "more beautiful than you know." Her eyes held mine for a minute so I could not turn away. No one had ever said that to me before.

I memorized Edna St. Vincent Millay's poem "Renascence," all eight pages. I said it to myself often. The words were so beautiful they made me happy to hear, but it was the sadness and the pain and the renewal that gave me hope.

La poesía no es un lujo

I never once gave a thought to the days when I believed that bulbs were starburst patterns of color, because that was what all light looked to me.

There would be the light of the snow. And then this incredible crescendo of birds.