Quotes About Beauty

I love old funky things. Color just makes me happy, and things all lined up.

I was recently told by a guy friend that red lipstick during the summer is distracting, and I said, "You need to shut up because I love red lips in the summer." Guys are stupid, moral of the story.

I try not to bring in anything I don't love looking at. It's about restaint ... There is something about an unfinished quality that leaves within you that sense of possibility.

The best way to be beautiful is to choose your parents well.

I loved her as the sun loves the flower: ever-present, nourishingly, and gently.

I don't love her because she's beautiful; I love her and she's beautiful.

When we love the stars light up, the wrong becomes undone. Naturally, my soul surrenders.

I'm not a make-up person, but I love wearable products that are easy to use, with fun packaging

As Stevie stepped outside, the cold air slapped her in the face. The magnificent cloak of reds and golds that hung from the Vermont woodland had dropped suddenly, like a massive act of arboreal striptease. Striptease. Strip trees. Striptrees? God, she was tired.

A book is really like a lover. It arranges itself in your life in a way that is beautiful. Even as a kid, my sister, who was the eldest, brought books home for me, and I think I spent more time sniffing and touching them than reading. I just remember the joy of the book, the beauty of the binding. The smelling of the interior. Happy. [Interview with Emma Brockes, The Believer , November/December, 2012]

Never fear. When this rose blooms, you will be with me again.

I am in love with the world.

I am finding out as I am aging that I am in love with the world.

I have nothing now but praise for my life. I'm not unhappy. I cry a lot because I miss people. They die and I can't stop them. They leave me and I love them more. ... What I dread is the isolation. ... There are so many beautiful things in the world which I will have to leave when I die, but I'm ready, I'm ready, I'm ready.

She was a pretty girl, with a pointed face and blue-black hair. But she was an untidy, a dusty sort of girl, and you felt that in a few years something might go wrong; she might get swollen ankles or grow a mustache.

her stars; they had been waiting her whole life and she only had to find a way to reach them. But now that she saw them unfiltered, she felt revolted. They weren't beautiful. They were the lights of anglerfish, deep-sea monstrosities with glowing lures, calling the small and stupid toward jaws and needle teeth. There was only death out here, only void and fire, and the true beauty in the universe was what she had left behind.

It, one suspects, must have had much to do with the evocation of what is called the Oxford spirit—that gentlest spirit, so lingering and searching, so dear to them who as youths were brought into ken of it, so exasperating to them who were not. Yes, certainly, it is this mild, miasmal air, not less than the grey beauty and gravity of the buildings, that has helped Oxford to produce, and foster eternally, her peculiar race of artist-scholars, scholar-artists. The

For the attractive woman, dogs are mere dumb and restless brutes—possibly dangerous, certainly soulless.

Women who love the same man have a kind of bitter freemasonry. We resented each other. She envied me my beauty, my dress. I envied the little fool her privilege of being always near to you.

Yet, though a Greek would have railed at her asymmetry, and an Elizabethan have called her "gipsy," Miss Dobson now, in the midst of the Edwardian Era, was the toast of two hemispheres.

She was, indeed, far too human a creature to care much for art.

She was a nymph to whom men's admiration was the greater part of life.

But it is a fact that no man, howsoever graced, can shine in juxtaposition to a very pretty woman.

Surrounded both by plain women of flesh and blood and by beauteous women on pasteboard, the undergraduate is the easiest victim of living loveliness—is as a fire ever well and truly laid, amenable to a spark.