Quotes About Beauty

The sparrow hops along the veranda, with wet feet.

Trails are like that: you're floating along in a Shakespearean Arden paradise and expect to see nymphs and flute boys, then suddenly you're struggling in a hot broiling sun of hell in dust and nettles and poison oak…just like life.

I looked up at the sky; the pure, wonderful stars were still there, burning

But let the mind beware, that though the flesh be bugged, the circumstances of existence are pretty glorious.

I dunno, remember when we were in East St. Louis with George, and Jack you said you'd love those beautiful dancing girls if you knew they would live forever as beautiful as they are? (p. 173)

On the wall hung a picture of an ugly old Cape Cod house. His friends said, 'Why do you have that ugly thing hanging there?' and Bull said, 'I like it because it's ugly.

the stars are fixed in rooftops like ink.

notice how he will come to manhood with his own particular soul bespeaking itself through the windows which are his eyes, and such lovely eyes surely do prophesy and indicate the loveliest of souls.

The Chinese call it woo The French les brumes The British Fog L A Smog Heaven Cellar Door

She was eighteen and most lovely, and lost.

the prettiest girls in the world live in Des Moines.

Mad raging sunsets poured in seafoams of cloud through unimaginable crags, with every rose tint of hope beyond, I felt just like it, brilliant and bleak beyond words. Everywhere awful ice fields and snow straws; one blade of grass jiggling in the winds of infinity, anchored to a rock. To the East, it was gray; to the north, awful; to the west, raging mad, hard iron fools wrestling in the groomian gloom; to the south, my father's mist.

I woke up from a deep sleep to find everybody sleeping like lambs and the car parked God knows where, because I couldn't see out the steamy windows. I got out of the car. We were in the mountains: there was a heaven of sunrise, cool purple airs, red mountainsides, emerald pastures in valleys, dew, and transmuting clouds of gold; on the ground gopher holes, cactus, mesquite. It was time for me to drive on.

Pero ¿por que pensar en eso cuando la tierra dorada se extendía delante de nosotros y estaban acechándonos todo tipo de acontecimientos imprevistos para sorprendernos y hacer que nos alegráramos de estar vivos y verlos?

One afternoon as I just gazed at the topmost branches of those immensely tall trees I began to notice that the uppermost twigs and leaves were lyrical happy dancers glad that they had been apportioned the top, with all that rumbling experience of the whole tree swaying beneath them making their dance, their every jiggle, a huge and communal and mysterious necessity dance, and so just floating up there in the void dancing the meaning of the tree.

I haven't the courage, or perhaps the hardness, to withstand the tremendous pathos of this life. I love life's casual beauty- fear its awful strength.

Maybe that's a haiku, maybe not, it might be a little too complicated, said Japhy. A real haiku's gotta be as simple as porridge and yet make you see the real thing, like the greatest haiku of them all probably is the one that goes 'The sparrow hops along the veranda, with wet feet.' By Shiki. You see the wet footprints like a vision in your mind and yet in those few words you also see all the rain that's been falling that day and almost smell the wet pine needles. (The Dharma Bums, Chap. 8)

The sun goes down long and red. All the magic names of the valley unrolled—Manteca, Madera, all the rest. Soon it got dusk, a grapy dusk, a purple dusk over tangerine groves and long melon fields; the sun the color of pressed grapes, slashed with burgundy red, the fields the color of love and Spanish mysteries. I stuck my head out the window and took deep breaths of the fragrant air. It was the most beautiful of all moments

the sudden vast diamond silence of the forest

There's a purpose to knowledge … salvation. What good are my visions or your visions, beautifully and laboriously worked out in art, if the purpose of it is not to save something in our souls and make it all beautiful.

Port Allen – onde o rio é todo chuva e rosas sob uma escuridão nebulosa e insignificante, onde entramos numa estrada sinuosa sob a luminosidade amarelada da neblina, e, de repente, numa volta, vislumbramos o viscoso vulto volátil escoando suas águas sob a ponte e cruzamos outra vez a eternidade.

Then Indiana fields again, and St. Louis as ever in its great valley clouds of afternoon. The muddy cobbles and the Montana logs, the broken steamboats, the ancient signs, the grass and the ropes by the river. The endless poem.

I told her it (sex) was beautiful. I wanted to prove it to her. She let me prove it, but I was too impatient and proved nothing. She sighed in the dark.

All the way down the raging coast! So that when later I heard people say "Oh Big Sur must be beautiful!" I gulp to wonder why it has the reputation of being beautiful above and beyond its fearfulness, its Blakean groaning roughrock Creation throes, those vistas when you drive the coast highway on a sunny day opening up the eye for miles of horrible washing sawing.