Quotes About Beauty

She was still glad she looked like Scully. He wasn't pretty either, but pretty people weren't the kind you need. Pretty people saw themselves in the mirror and were either too happy or too sad. People like Billie just shrugged and didn't care. She didn't want to turn into anyone pretty. Anyway, she had scars now, you only had to look.

I'm in the business of useless beauty, he says. And I'm happy with that. I don't think art needs an excuse to exist. We need beauty in our lives, so we don't go mad.

Beauty is a nonviolent experience of near death, a warning that one is fragile, like everything else in the universe.

Beauty is how objects end. Beauty is death.

For beauty to work, there must be a surface capable of receiving the wound.

In the event of beauty, a non-self part of my inner space seems to resonate in the colors on the wall, in the sounds pouring into my ears. Hugely amplified, might this resonance actually kill me? "A beautiful way to die" – to be destroyed by vibrations that removed myself from myself.

I think that this music could liquefy my internal organs, make my ears bleed (this has actually occurred), send me into seizures. Perhaps it could kill me. To be killed by intensed beauty, what a Keatsian way to die.

Maybe beauty is death, in a way, just like the decadent aesthetes used to say. It's a reminder that things are fragile, because when one thing envelopes another thing, that other thing might be overwhelmed or destroyed.

The mysterious quality of artworks is a signal of the mysterious quality of objects in general. Beauty is a secret that we know exists but whose content we don't know. When we share it with other, it's as if we are in on the same secret. We look at each other in amazement or with knowing look. But it's impossible to specify what this secret is. Only the fact that there is a secret is of any importance. Beauty is based on the raw fact of the secret as such.

Some time around 1932, Adolf Loos, the noted Viennese architect, said, "There is a great difference between an urn and a chamber pot, and in this difference there is leeway for culture.

grass-filled flight

We think a flower on a cliff is beautiful Because we stop our feet at the cliff's edge Unable to step out into the sky Like that fearless flower --Sosuke Aizen,Flower on the Precipice

My innocence is a dying flower

We are like fireworks…rising, shining and finally…scattering and fading. So until that moment comes when we vanish like fireworks…let us sparkle brightly…always.

People who call others ugly are the ugly ones.

A petal falling, never to bloom again A petal in flames, full of beauty

We are the fish in front of the waterfall. We are the insects inside the cage. We are the ruins of the billows, The skull on the crosier, The force of the torrent and the whale that drinks it. We are the five-horned bull. We are the fire-breathing monster. And the screaming children. Oh, we are posioned by the moonlight.

Look the stars are out. Don't you wish you could reach out and pick them like flowers?" "I hadn't thought of it." "Life. That's the way life is to me, Howard. You keep picking things until you get the one thing that really matters. Tell me about your great love.

Hvammsfjördur.

Boredom is the very opposite of beauty and truth. Life has been sacrificed to profit, and the result is boredom on a massive scale.

The moon and the stars are soothing constants in an idler's life.

The stars are a tantalizing mystery. And the great thing is that the stars are free, in that they cost nothing to watch, and can be seen from anywhere by anyone.

I thought, gazing at the beauty of the landscape again, it is as though the fiend has prevailed against the angels, and fixed his throne in a heaven, to rule it as though it were Hell.

By AD 800, so redeemed was Arabic from the contempt in which it had once been held that its sound had come to rank as the very music of power, and its cursives as things of pure beauty, refined to a rare and exquisite perfection by the art of its calligraphers. Among the Arabs, the written word was on the verge of becoming a mania. One scholar, when he died in 822, left behind him a library that filled a whole six hundred trunks.