Quotes About Beauty

She was young and lovely and surprised and dead. She was also blue. Blue as opals, pale blue. Blue as cornflowers, or dragonfly wings, or a spring - not summer - sky.

The moon on a bracelet and the sun in a jar," said Sarai. "We really wreak havoc on the heavens, don't we?" Lazlo's voice sank deeper in his throat. Smokier. Hungrier. "I expect the heavens will survive," he said, and then he kissed her.

Creamy and leggy, with long azure hair and the eyes of a silent-movie star, she moved like a poem and smiled like a sphinx.

I miss sunrise even more. The green scent of dawn in the forest? The color blushing back into the world, different every day.

What does "true" even mean when it comes to a face? Only souls are true, and when you spill them to the air they melt away ...

Beautiful men and women with distorted shadows came and scorched their handprints onto doors before vanishing skyward, drafts of heat billowing behind them with the whumph of unseen wings. Here and there, feathers fell, and they were like tufts of white fire, disintegrating to ash as soon as they touched the ground.

The way he looked at her, she felt like some kind of miracle, as though his dreamer's eyes cast her in their glow of wonder.

Like attracts like, beauty finds beauty, and freaks look on from the smoking section, aching.

EVERYTHING IS A MIRACLE. IT IS A MIRACLE THAT ONE DOES NOT MELT IN ONE'S BATH. —PICASSO

Dream up something wild and improbable. Something beautiful and full of monsters. -Beautiful and full of monsters? -All the best stories are.

The goblins want girls who dream so hard about being pretty their yearning leaves a palpable trail, a scent goblins can follow like sharks on a soft bloom of blood. The girls with hungry eyes who pray each night to wake up as someone else. Urgent, unkissed, wishful girls. Like Kizzy.

I want to do mysterious and improbable things alongside a fierce and beautiful girl who looks like a doll brought to life by a sorcerer.

Hope was luster, and they had shone with it like twin pearls in an oyster.

She was the goddess of... herself . And he could not look away from her.

His gaze was heat across her cheeks, her lips. It was touch. His eyes were hypnotic, his brows black and velvet. He was copper and shadow, honey and menace, the severity of knife-blade cheekbones and a widow's peak like the point of a dagger.

But her name was Esmé. She was a girl with long, long, red, red hair. Her mother braided it. The flower shop boy stood behind her and held it in his hand. Her mother cut it off and hung it from a chandelier. She was Queen. Mazishta. Her hair was black and her handmaidens dressed it with pearls and silver pins. Her flesh was golden like the desert. Her flesh was pale like cream. Her eyes were blue. Brown.

Our priestesses have always taught that divinity, by virtue of its great power, must encompass both beauty and terror.

He danced with the sky instead, and the sky dropped him like a rotten plum.

The silence, she thought, was remarkable: a perfect, shimmering thing, and fragile. Like glass, if it shattered, it would never come back together again.

It seemed she was in a cathedral—if, that is, the earth itself were to dream a cathedral into being over thousands of years of water weeping through stone.

Strange the dreamer was an artist, too, and he was the antidote to vile.

Don't look at me like that," said Ruza. "Like what?" "Like I'm a beautiful book you're about to open and plunder with your greedy mad eyes.

She'd have to get used to him all over again, taking small sips of his beauty as if it was too hot a drink to swallow all at once.

She looked at him, beautiful Kazimir whose smile used to work on her like a summons, compelling her to his side.