Quotes About Beauty

Why is joy not considered a fit subject for an artist?

We will not be saved by our money, our weapons, or our technological virtuosity; we might be rescued by the joyful and unprofitable pursuits of love, beauty, and contemplation

As Henry Miller realized, "the earth is a Paradise. We don't have to make it a Paradise—it is one. We have only to make ourselves fit to inhabit it."23

Why am I afraid to dance, I who love music and rhythm and grace and song and laughter? Why am I afraid to live, I who love life and the beauty of flesh and the living colors of the earth and sky and sea? Why am I afraid to love, I who love love?

Suppose I was to tell you that it's just beauty that's calling me, the beauty of the far off and unknown, the mystery and spell which lures me, the need of freedom of great wide spaces, the joy of wandering on and on----in quest of the secret which is hidden over there----beyond the horizon?

Indeed, if a mathematician is asked to justify his interest in complex numbers, he will point, with some indignation, to the many beautiful theorems in the theory of equations, of power series, and of analytic functions in general, which owe their origin to the introduction of complex numbers. The mathematician is not willing to give up his interest in these most beautiful accomplishments of his genius.

It is the very nature of language to form rather than inform. When language is personal, which it is at its best, it reveals; and revelation is always formative - we don't know more, we become more. Our best users of language, poets and lovers and children and saints, use words to make - make intimacies, make character, make beauty, make goodness, make truth.

Around you this night a thousand million firefly anatomies breathe in and out in their slow-burning liturgical glow.

I sipped, thanking the particles of tea leaves for absorbing the sun's heat on dewy terraced mountains, growing fat and lustrous, then drying in the same heat, preserving God's grace in a fragile, fragrant medium for me to drink at this table.

This proves that great lyric poetry can die, be reborn, die again, but will always remain one of the most outstanding creations of the human soul.

Chi vuole respirare a grandi zaffate la musa del nostro tempo la precarietà può passare di qui senza affrettarsi è il colpo secco quello che fa orrore non già l'evanescenza il dolce afflato del nulla ...

Sale un' ora d' attesa in cieIo, vacua, dal mare che s'ingrigia. Un albero ill nuvole sull' acqua cresce, poi crolla come di cinigia. Assente, come manem in questa plaga che ti presente e senza te consuma: sei lontana e pero tutto divaga dal suo soleo, dirupa, spare in bruma.

La poesía cruza la tierra sola, / Apoya su voz en el dolor del mundo y nada pide / —ni siquiera palabras. / Llega de lejos y sin hora, nunca avisa; / Tiene la llave de la puerta. / Al entrar siempre se detiene a mirarnos. / Después abre su mano y nos entrega / Una flor, un guijarro, o algo secreto, / Pero tan intenso que el corazón palpita / Demasiado veloz. Y despertamos.

where I walked, the frost shaped itself to my will, dancing in the air like music over water.

We had been arguing for hours and it was dark in the room. We sat silently on the couch, I was tapping my foot against the table. He glanced at the green digital glow of the clock. "2:05 is beautiful," he said. I looked, and it was.

Black is closing in around my eyes. I realize with a great, tired sadness that I am losing the world. The walls, the molding on the door frame, the yellow of the lamp, his back at the sink… are all achingly beautiful. I reach out and feel myself groping in the air, feel myself falling great distances, feel nothing at all. Suddenly, with a red rush I can breathe and I can see. I get up from the floor before he turns around and says, "You look flushed.

Art unmakes the world made by work.

Lady, the sun's light to our eyes is dear, And fair the tranquil reaches of the sea, And flowery earth in May, and bounding waters; And so right many fair things I might praise; Yet nothing is so radiant and so fair As for souls childless, with desire sore-smitten, To see the light of babes about the house.

It's not beauty but fine qualities, my girl, that keep a husband.

Italian men do appreciate beautiful women. They're not afraid of the beauty, which is nice.

The world was so beautiful in those days, Annika. The music, the flowers, the scent of pines..." "It still is," said Annika. "Honestly, it still is.

Happiness is almost as good as magic for altering a person's looks.

To this largesse had been added waist-length golden, curling hair which, had she chosen to sit on a rock brushing it, must have sent every sailor within miles plunging to his doom.

The comical dusky down that had covered Anna's head in early childhood had become a waist-length mantle, its rich darkness shot through like watered silk with chestnut, indigo, and bronze. "Over my dead body will you cut your hair.