Quotes About Beauty

The Victorian woman became her ovaries, as today's woman has become her beauty. Her reproductive value, as the aesthetic value of her face and body today, came to be seen as a sacred trust, one that she must constantly guard in the interest of her race.

Is beauty really sex? Does a woman's sexuality correspond to what she looks like? Does she have the right to sexual pleasure and self-esteem because she's a person, or must she earn that right through beauty, as she used to through marriage?

O mito da beleza gera nas mulheres uma redução de amor-próprio, com o resultado de altos lucros para as empresas.

Are women beautiful or aren't we?

Beauty" today is what the female orgasm used to be: something given to women by men, if they submitted to their feminine role and were lucky.

A girl learns that stories happen to beautiful women, whether they are interesting or not. And, interesting or not, stories do not happen to women who are not beautiful.

None of this is true. "Beauty" is a currency system like the gold standard. Like any economy, it is determined by politics, and in the modern age in the West it is the last, best belief system that keeps male dominance intact. In assigning value to women in a vertical hierarchy according to a culturally imposed physical standard, it is an expression of power relations in which women must unnaturally compete for resources that men have appropriated for themselves.

Beauty" is not universal or changeless, though the West pretends that all ideals of female beauty stem from one Platonic Ideal Woman; the Maori admire a fat vulva, and the Padung, droopy breasts.

This point, where beauty forms the bridge between women and institutions, is what women are taught to seize upon, and is then used as proof that women themselves are finally to blame. But to make herself grasp this straw, a woman has to surpress what she knows: that the powerful ask for women to display themselves in this way.

Nor has the beauty myth always been this way. Though the pairing of the older rich men with young, "beautiful" women is taken to be somehow inevitable, in the matriarchal Goddess religions that dominated the Mediterranean from about 25,000 B.C.E. to about 700 B.C.E., the situation was reversed:

Most of our assumptions about the way women have always thought about "beauty" date from no earlier than the 1830s, when the cult of domesticity was first consolidated and the beauty index invented.

A man's right to confer judgment on any woman's beauty while remaining himself unjudged is beyond scrutiny because it is thought of as God-given.

They reclassify healthy female flesh as "cellulite," an invented "condition" that was imported into the United States by vogue only in 1973; they refer to this texture as "disfiguring," unsightly," "polluted with toxins." Before 1973, it was normal female flesh.

Men die once and women die twice. Women die as beauties before their bodies die.

La belleza es sólo visual, mas real en una película o en piedra que en tres dimensiones vivas.

And forget not that the earth delights to feel your bare feet and the winds long to play with your hair.

beauty is life when life unveils her holy face. But you are life and you are the veil. Beauty is eternity gazing at itself in a mirror. But you are eternity and you are the mirror.

I cried over beautiful things knowing no beautiful thing lasts. The field of cornflower yellow is a scarf at the neck of the copper sunburned woman, the mother of the year, the taker of seeds. The northwest wind comes and the yellow is torn full of holes, new beautiful things come in the first spit of snow on the northwest wind, and the old things go, not one lasts.

Under the summer roses When the flagrant crimson Lurks in the dusk Of the wild red leaves, Love, with little hands, Comes and touches you With a thousand memories, And asks you Beautiful, unanswerable questions.

Man is born with rainbows in his heart and you'll never read him unless you consider rainbows.

When the rose's flash to the sunset Reels to the wrack and the twist, And the rose is a red bygone, When the face I love is going And the gate to the end shall clang, And it's no use to beckon or say, "So long"— Maybe I'll tell you then— some other time.

Here is dust remembers it was a rose one time and lay in a woman's hair. Here is dust remembers it was a woman one time and in her hair lay a rose. Oh things one time dust, what else now is it you dream and remember of old days? ? Carl Sandburg, "Dust," The Complete Poems of Carl Sandburg . (Houghton Mifflin Harcourt; First Edition edition January 6, 2003) Originally published 1950.

The blood of roses, splashed with the blood of angels, and of demons.

like a book read over and over again like one book being a long row of books like leaves and windflowers bending low and bending to be never broken