Quotes About Beauty

It never occurs to one to think whether she is pretty or ugly. One just surrenders to her charm.

cambered forehead of a virgin and who had eyes

Los vulgares rasgos de ternura -una mano apretada, una flor guardada en un libro-, todo era nuevo para mí, todo me encantaba.

When it comes to beauty whatever makes you look good and feel good is right.

I warmly recommend to you the films of poets.

Oui, la beauté ne saurait jamais nous faire oublier notre condition tragique. Il y a une beauté proprement humaine, ce feu d'esprit qui brûle, s'il brûle, au-delà du tragique.

And a rose, she lived as roses do, the space of a morn.

Il y a une forme de légèreté et de grâce dans le simple fait d'exister, au-delà des occupations, au-delà des sentiments forts, au-delà des engagements, et c'est de cela que j'ai voulu rendre compte. De ce petit plus qui nous est donné à tous : le sel de la vie.

Melanin is the black pigment which permits skins to appear other than white (black, brown, red and yellow). Melanin pigment coloration is the norm for the hue-man family. If there are non-white readers who disagree with this presentation of white rejection of the white-skinned self, may I refer you to the literature on the currently developing sun-tanning parlors.

Every mother should be a true artist, who knows how to weave into her child's life images of grace and beauty, the true poet capable of writing on the soul of childhood the harmony of love and truth, and teaching it how to produce the grandest of all poems - the poetry of a true and noble life.

simple robes Rich tints of beauty rare. Soon a host of lovely flowers From vales and woodland burst; But in all that fair procession The crocuses were first. First to weave for Earth a chaplet To crown her dear old head; And to beautify the pathway Where winter still did tread. And their loved and white haired mother Smiled sweetly 'neath the touch, When she knew her faithful children Were loving her

It is easy to love power, because power tells you it is majesty and beauty and greatness.

And Neverfell started to understand the beauty of flaws, those places where up and down secretly gave up their argument and shook hands, where compass points spun like a dervish and where space itself was twisted like a wrung-out flannel. These places were the dimples for Caverna's glittering smile, her foibles, her signature. To understand them was to steal a smile, a twisted rose from her hand, a bone from between her thousand teeth.

I think that when Lady Tamarind looks at you, she feels as the cathedral might if it suddenly remembered that once it had been a grim little church facing down musket fire and a cruel sea wind.

There was another kind of beauty, however, and everyone on the Myriad knew it. A twisted beauty that turned your stomach even while it turned your head. Frecht was the old word, a harsh word ragged with superstitious awe. It was an ugliness and otherness that could only be holy, a breach of the rules that echoed those that no rules coul bind.

Mandelion spread itself like a butterfly of brick and slate.

You must not love them," said Quest gently. "It is easy to love power, because power tells you it is majesty and beauty and greatness. But the gods were monsters. Do not even love their memory.

You must not love them. It is easy to love power because power tells you it is majesty and beauty and greatness. But the gods were monsters. Do not even love their memory. The gods are dead.

For a second, she could almost see Caverna as the Kleptomancer did, a murky, monstrous beauty, smiling her fine-fanged smile as she prepared to stretch and grow, shaking out her tunnel-tresses as they became longer and longer. Perhaps Caverna had already known that such an opportunity was open to her. Neverfell imagined her discarding the Grand Steward like a worn-out toy, and reaching for a new favourite, a man who could extend her empire and bring her new strength . . . Maxim Childersin.

You know, that's a really beautiful bow," Neverfell interrupted suddenly. "Did you make it?" "Found it, mended it, modified it," was the curt reply.

That last extraordinary Face had sent a throb through her very soul, like a breeze shivering the string of a harp, and she could not account for it.

And that, that was wonderful.

She wanted to reach out across countless aeons and hold it, just as its maker had once held it. That would be like touching a star.

I am writing in the garden. To write as one should of a garden one must not write outside it or merely somewhere near it, but in the garden.