Quotes About Beauty

Physical beauty is a subject that many skirt around and almost everyone attempts to down-play thereby demonstrating some sound moral stance, but it remains one of the glories of human existence. Of course, there are many people who are attractive without being beautiful just as there are beauties who bore, and the danger of beauty in the very young is that it can make the business of life seem deceptively easy.

The ugliness is what makes the beautiful things beautiful.

I miss art. I miss art. Life would be worth living if I had art.

His wings - she's never seen them fully spread, massive and strong. She wants to tell him that this is how he was meant to be - as wrong as it was for her to do this to him, as wrong as it feels, he is this person in this moment, and there's nothing more beautiful.

Beautiful. Jules once thought he'd understood what the word meant. He now believed it overused. Some word needed to be kept in reserve for the rare, the arresting, the surprising . . . the magical. Or a new one invented.

One could tolerate an acid tongue for a time when the owner of it was so very pretty.

The stars are particularly spectacular tonight, don't you think? Dazzling. As if they've all had a good rinsing from the storm.

But now he understood why someone would write things like 'she walked in beauty like the night' and so forth. Because poetry was a barrier against raw emotions. It distilled them into bearable music, allowed one to accommodate them a little at a time.

Good God. She was Wellington with eyelashes.

Plain girls who were also clever were a ha'pence a dozen.

He was close enough now to see that her profile was designed to do dramatic things to hearts: stop them, steal them, break them.

Good evening, Miss Eversea. You've stars in your hair.

Her mind was obsessively playing and replaying his words of five minutes ago. And finally she could contain them no longer. 'Was she pretty?' she mimicked the vicar's creaky tones. 'Very,' she answered, in a very good imitation of the viscount's own baritone. Kit snorted a laugh. But really, Kit had waxed almost lyrical about Caroline Allston--- Caro, no doubt. Susannah wondered of Caro was carved on the viscount's heart the way it was on the oak, scarred and thick with age.

It's . . . Titian, Genevieve breathed. I'm sure of it. A slow, awestruck, disbelieving smile took over her face. Stunned pleasure shone from her eyes. And he was certain her heart was racing with the sheer delight of being in the presence of the thing. Because his heart was racing at simply watching her love it.

Lovely as a spring day but not the sort to make one envious, any more than one would envy the sun its ability to shine.

the moon. Just a curved sliver of light, like the door of heaven had been left slightly ajar.

I feel that if one is properly living life . . . an excess of rumination and metaphor can put you at a remove from all that's beautiful about it. If one takes advantage of all the senses—breathing, feeling, seeing . . . touching . . . tasting . . ." he tried not to look at Lillias ". . . then merely being alive is poetry.

They really 'did,' you know, he said softly, suddenly. Did? She was puzzled. The roses. Remind me of you. They're precisely the sort of flowers you ought to have. Those spectacular, throbbing, lush blooms that now stood guard over her bed. With petals unconscionably soft.

She did draw and paint and did both diligently, but possessed modest talent. She didn't mind. Her gift and passion lay in the observation and recognition of talent and beauty, whether it was found in the work of an Italian master or the profile of a viscount-to-be.

But you'd sell your soul for it, wouldn't you? For one day of feeling beautiful.

I may be fat and ugly, but I'm not stupid. If anyone had ever gotten past my looks, they might've noticed I have a brain.

What is left of a woman once her last five pounds are gone?

the last complete sentence she ever utters is "It's a good thing there's birds.

And now here you are, sitting in your chair by the window, gazing out urgently, raptly at "your" tree—its shapely green canopy, its black velvety shadows, its sinuously curved trunk, its barky brown bark.