Quotes About Beauty

Y cuando hayamos atravesado todas las calles y solo quede el polvo de nuestros pies frenéticos, todavía quedaría el recuerdo de tu ancha cara llena, tan blanca, y la gruesa boca con frescos labios entreabiertos, los dientes blancos como la tiza y todos ellos perfectos, y en ese recuerdo nada puede cambiar en modo alguno, porque esto, como tus dientes, es perfecto...

These memories were beautiful, and they stung like nettles.

There is a world here as full and rich, as compelling and instructive, as Thoreau found at Walden.

Do we weep when the sun sinks into the ocean? The full magnificence of the sun is revealed to us only in the few moments preceding and following its disappearance.

Make me into any fantastic shape, use all your art, exhaust your lung-power - still I shall only be a thing fabricated, at the best a beautiful cultured soul.

But as long as we come out of wombs with arms and legs, as long as there are stars above us to drive us mad and grass under our feet to cushion the wonder in us, just so long will this body serve for all the tunes that we may whistle.

In her tight-fitting Persian dress, with turban to match, she looked ravishing, Spring had come and she had donned a pair of long gloves and a beautiful taupe fur slung carelessly about her full, columnar neck.

Like Boticelli's Venus, you rose from the sea and are still all foam!

Paris is like a whore.

I hear not a word because she is beautiful and I love her and now I am happy and willing to die.

The odalisques he has studded with malachite and jasper, their flesh veiled with a thousand eyes, perfumed eyes dipped in the sperm of whales.

This is not a book. This is libel, slander, defamation of character. This is not a book, in the ordinary sense of the word. No, this is a prolonged insult, a gob of spit in the face of Art, a kick in the pants to God, Man, Destiny, Time, Love, Beauty . . . what you will. I am going to sing for you, a little off key perhaps, but I will sing. I will sing while you croak, I will dance over your dirty corpse . . .

el mundo nunca deja morir de hambre a una mujer guapa.

until the heart bursts and there is nothing left but a blinding, scorching light, the radiant light that carries off the fecundated seeds of the stars. The story of art which roots lie in massacre.

Seni düzüyorum Tania, düzülmüÅŸ kalas?n diye.

Sedam kraj nje i ona pri?a - cela poplava ra?i. Divlje suši?ave note histerije, perverzije, gube. Ne ?ujem ni re?, zato što je lepa i ja je volim, i sada sam sre?an i želim umreti.

When spring comes to Paris the humblest mortal alive must feel that he dwells in paradise.

The morning pouring everywhere, its golden glory on the air.

How Beautiful is the rain! After the dust and heat, In the broad and fiery street, In the narrow lane, How beautiful is the rain! How it clatters along the roofs, Like the tramp of hoofs! How it gushes and struggles out From the throat of the overflowing spout! Across the window-pane It pours and pours; And swift and wide, With a muddy tide, Like a river down the gutter roars The rain, the welcome rain! -Rain in Summer

Ye are better than all the ballads That ever were sung or said; For ye are living poems, And all the rest are dead.

The sky is filled with stars, invisible by day.

Frost kills the flowers that bloom out of season...

Art is the child of Nature.

Poor, deluded Shawondasee! 'T was no woman that you gazed at, 'T was no maiden that you sighed for, 'T was the prairie dandelion That through all the dreamy Summer You had gazed at with such longing, You had sighed for with such passion, And had puffed away forever, Blown into the air with sighing. Ah! deluded Shawondasee!