Quotes About Beauty

He ran his palm up the curve of her back and then removed his arm from around her, amused at how swiftly she rolled off him, fussing with her many skirts to be sure her ruffled breeches weren't exposed. Her shyness baffled him. He could remember how her body looked in firelight, her skin as pale as moonbeams, the tips of her breasts the delicate pink of cacti blossoms. How could such loveliness bring shame?

Where are we going?" she asked. "You will see." She cast an uneasy glance at the knife on his belt. Then her eyes trailed up his muscular torso to his face. The breeze caught his hair, pulling it back so she had an unimpeded view of his features. She had grown so accustomed to the slash on his cheek, she scarcely noticed it now. Instead she saw the proud lift of his squared chin, the high line of his cheekbones, the chiseled profile of his nose and forehead.

Hunter studied her features, once so repulsive to him, now so cherished. He ran a finger up the fragile bridge of her nose, then traced the line of her brow, acutely conscious of the small bones that shaped her face. Protectiveness welled within him.

I like your face, Blue Eyes. It is carved upon my heart.

Fate. Today it had brought him a woman, a woman like no other, with skin as white as a night moon, hair like honey, and eyes like the summer sky. His woman, and this time she came freely.

Hunter tucked in his chin to study the girl's mud-streaked face and found himself wondering how he ever could have thought her ugly. Could a shaft of sunlight be ugly? A sparkle of moonlight upon water?

Why bother with me? Why not find yourself an Indian woman?" "It is you I want." He brushed his knuckles along the hollow of her cheek. "Your skin is moonlight. I am dark like night next to you." He slid his hand behind her neck and drew her toward him. "Sunshine in your hair, moonlight on your skin, this Comanche's bright one, no?

Rosebud. Aren't you lovely.

I drove into the woods and there it was, shining like the human mind.

There must be an aesthetic besides death

I remember the morning you walked back from the sea, dirty trousers rolled, your feet pale as prisoners, poems and broken shells falling through a hole in your pocket. You stood for a moment and smiled at the gulls and it was as though the sun, the water, the day had conspired to put you back together again. I hope you walked into death as you did into that morning chasing a poem your step a little jaunty and your eyes full of the sea.

Besides, I don't really wear much makeup." "Yeah, well, that's because you got the good-skin gene in the family," Gretchen complained. "You got Mom's golden skin. You're like the perfect Norwegian goddess." "Excuse me?" No one had ever called me a goddess before, and I was pretty sure no one would ever do it again, either. Could she at least do it while Sean was still hanging around? And in a very loud voice, with the door wide open? Just shout it: Kirsten is a goddess!

neatly clipped beech hedge.

On tombait amoureux d'un corps et d'un visage, oui, mais d'un corps qui bougeait, qui avait une grâce et une allure, et d'un visage qui vous regardait, qui vous souriait : on tombait amoureux d'une énergie ou d'un esprit qui irradiait par ces gestes, ces yeux ou ce sourire.

I would have liked maybe to be in architecture or painting, something connected to the fine arts.

He sang his last song. And the words of that have never been written down. But it was sweet and of great beauty, and those that heard it were changed utterly. Some say it was the song that moves the stars.

He worked night and day. He made a coat that would transform him; he would be more than a man; a winged creature, beautiful as light. All the birds brought him feathers. Even the eagle. Even the swan.

The dove will rise above destruction with a white rose in her beak. over storm over tempest. over time and the ages. And the petals will fall to the ground like snow.

People will pay to see ugliness. It makes them feel human.

And have your mother put my head on a stake? Do you have any notion what that would do to my handsome good looks?

The starlings swooped, writing a poem across the heavens that only God could read.

the mother's narcissism is confirmed by how she seeks reassurance from the magic mirror on the wall early in the story, long before Snow White's beauty surpasses her own. There is no better tale for conveying how imperilled a teenage girl can feel with a narcissistic, competitive mother. And for Madeline, there were no friendly dwarves.

Have you ever thought that the only ugly things in this Cove are man's fault, while the beautiful things are God's work? Look at those mountains.

Living in the middle of beauty like this, we've no call to have puny ideas about God. Why do you suppose His world is so fancy-fine, so full of wonderment if He doesn't want everything to be good and perfect and right and healthy? But we can spoil His good work. When we mess things up, then we shouldn't blame Him and try to make ourselves feel better by contending that it's what He wanted.