Quotes About Beauty

Men who loved you when you were twenty, and who continue to see you the way you looked then are impossible to replace.

No one quite knew why, but they felt light-hearted. Maybe it was because of the beautiful weather. The sky, so blue, seemed gently to bow down towards the horizon and caress the earth.

En kvinne bør ligne på en kvige: øm, tillitsfull og frodig, med en kropp så hvit som fløte - en hud som gamle skuespillerinner, skjønner dere, en hud som er myk av massasje og gjennomtrengt av sminke og pudder.

is the misquotation of Keats, when Némirovsky writes: "This thing of Beauty is a guilt for ever." I have deliberately retained this mistake in the text as a poignant reminder that Némirovsky was writing Suite Française in the depths of the French countryside, with a sense of urgent foreboding and nothing but her memory as a source.

Nel cuore di ogni uomo e di ogni donna resta una specie di Eden dove non ci sono né morte né guerre, dove le belve e le cerbiatte giocano in pace. Si tratta solo di ritrovare quel paradiso, rifiutando di vedere tutto il resto

What a beautiful horse! They really do have beautiful horses, by God." The young girls sighed. Then the bitter voice of some old man dozing by the stove called out, "Sure they do, they're our horses!

All around him, in his house, everything consisted of fragments of beauty. Sometimes modest, sometimes valuable, these fragments combined to form a unique atmosphere of soft luminosity – the only one worthy of a cultured man, he thought. When he was twenty he had worn a ring with an inscription inside: This thing of Beauty is a guilt for ever (Monsieur

Longtemps, Francine demeura immobile ; sa colère même était tombée ; de grosses larmes gonflaient ses paupières et coulaient, lourdes et rondes, le long de ses joues. Mais elle ne songeait pas à les essuyer. Elle oubliait, pour la première fois de sa vie peut-être, que le chagrin vieillit et abîme la figure.

She could feel a bell-shaped pink flower brushing her lips. Later, she would remember that while they were stretched out on the ground, a small white butterfly was lazily flitting from one flower to another. Finally she heard a voice whisper, "It's over; they're gone." She stood up and automatically brushed the dust from her skirt. No one, she thought, had been hurt. But after walking for a few minutes, they saw the first fatalities: two men and a woman.

youth is a marvelous garment

Every human soul has seen, perhaps before their birth pure forms such as justice, temperance, beauty and all the great moral qualities which we hold in honour. We are moved towards what is good by the faint memory of these forms simple and calm and blessed which we saw once in a pure, clear light being pure ourselves.

Reading and writing and the preservation of language and its forms and the kind of eloquence and the kind of beauty which the language is capable of is terribly important to the human beings because this is connected to thought.

Once in an endless meadow, just able to peer through the tawny haze of the grass tops, the child who was myself had watched a young fox catching mice, an elegant newly minted fox, straight from the hand of God, brilliantly ruddy, with black stockings and a white-tipped brush. The fox heard and turned. I saw its intense vivid mask, its liquid amber eyes. Then it was gone. An image of such beauty and such mysterious sense. The child wept and knew himself an artist.

Love generates, or rather reveals, something which may be called absolute charm. In the beloved nothing is gauche. Every move of the head, every tone of the voice, every laugh or grunt or cough or twitch of the nose is as valuable and revealing as a glimpse of paradise.

A love without reservation ought to be a life force compelling the world into order and beauty. But that love can be so strong and yet so entirely powerless is what breaks the heart.

You've got such nice hair, it seems a pity to dye it blue.

That art gives charm to terrible things is perhaps its glory, perhaps its curse. Art is a doom.

Art must invent new beauty, not play with what has already been made, religion must invent God and never rest.

I saw her simplicity, her ignorance, her childish unkindness, her unpretty anxious little face. She was not beautiful or brilliantly clever. How false it is to say that love is blind. I could even judge her, I could even condemn her, I could even, in some possible galactic loop of thought, make her suffer.

The true rose, the miracle of nature, owed nothing to the hand of man.

a meadow which David had known before the coming of the motorway, where he had searched for mushrooms in previous autumns, in lost quiet golden hazes.

The grass on the other side of the road was a pullulating emerald green, the rocks that grew here and there among the grass were almost dazzlingly alight with little diamonds. The warm air met me in a wave, thick with land smells of earth and growth and flowers.

And suffering we know breeds images, it breeds the most beautiful images of all.

However one must ask not just, is it amusing, is it exciting, but is it a work of art?