Quotes About Beauty

It was life, often unsatisfying, frequently cruel, usually boring, sometimes beautiful, once in a while exhilarating.

Art should be a place of hope.

Her body was wrapped in shadows like moth wings, like rose-petals.

In this universe there might grow roses which sing.

Sometimes, the embers are better then the campfire. It's strange, but it's true.

They were still all beautiful and there was still enchantment and wonder, but she had crossed a line and now the fairy tale was green with corruption and evil.

There are things of such darkness and horror—just, I suppose, as there are things of such great beauty—that they will not fit through the puny human doors of perception.

French is the language that turns dirt into romance.

Black as night and as beautiful as forever.

Dead fields under a November sky, scattered rose petals brown and turning up at the edges, empty pools scummed with algae, rot, decomposition, dust...

It was sweet and lovely, that smile, perhaps the more so because it wasn't complicated by much in the way of thought.

The sun was a molten coin burning a circle in the low-hanging overcast, surrounded by a fairy-ring of moisture.

In many ways the world is nothing but a pile of shit. But it can also be very beautiful.

If there is love, smallpox scars are as pretty as dimples. - Japanese Proverb

Was it pretty? Your country. . .your land? It was beautiful, the gunslinger said. There were fields and forests and rivers and mists in the morning. But that's only pretty. My mother used to say that the only real beauty is order and love and light.

I looked at what he built, and to me it explained the stars.

When there is love, scars are as pretty as dimples.

The water was glassy and calm, still candy-colored in the afterglow of sunset.

And she sees that the moonlight is losing its orange glow. It has become buttery, and will soon turn to silver.

Some things you never forgot. She had come to believe that the very things the practical world dismissed as ephemera—things like songs and moonlight and kisses—were sometimes the things that lasted the longest. They might be foolish, but they defied forgetting. And that was good. That was good.

Some birds are not meant to be caged, that's all. Their feathers are too bright, their songs too sweet and wild.

The grass in the back field was almost waist high, and now there was goldenrod, that late-summer gossip which comes to tattle on autumn every year. But there was no autumn in the air today; the sun was still all August, although calendar August was almost two weeks gone.

a cloud-congested caul that is alternately red, orange, vermilion, purple. Sometimes the clouds break apart in great, slow rafts, letting through beams of innocent yellow sunlight that are bitterly nostalgic for the summer that has gone by.

perhaps real beauty was something unrecognized by the conscious self, a work that was always in progress, a thing of being rather than seeing.