Quotes About Beauty

Beauty of music you must hear twice.

Pe treptele îndep?rtate ale altarului cel mare, gol precum trupul domnului, preoÈ›ii zac prosternaÈ›i în È™optit? rug?ciune(...) Ea st? în picioare lâng? mine, palid? È™i rece, înveÈ™mântat? în umbrelele naosului negru ca p?catul, cu cotul fragil la braÈ›ul meu (...)Îi v?d ochii întunecaÈ›i È™i plini de suferin??, frumoÈ™i ca ochii unei antilope. O, ran? nemiloas?! Dumnezeu libidinos!

Fair are the daughters of men, and fairest are those who read.

Avert they gaze, heathen scum. The likes of us do not deserve to gaze upon such beauty! Tis better to grind our eyes into the dirt!

And I suppose that what I have learned is a lesson that the years, or self-concern, had begun to hide from me, namely, that the bravest and most loyal and loving people in the world seldom have heroic physical characteristics or the auras of saints. In fact, their faces are like those of people whom you might randomly pull out of a supermarket line, their physical makeup so nondescript and unremarkable that it's hard to remember what they look like ten minutes after they walk out of a room.

The wind smelled of humus, lichen, the musky odor of pecan husks broken under the shoe, a sunshower on the fields across the bayou. But any poetry that might have been contained in that moment was lost when I stared into Honoria's face, convinced that human insanity was as close to our fingertips as the act of rubbing fog off a window pane.

THE ALLURE OF Montana is like a commitment to a narcotic; you can never use it up or get enough of it. Its wilderness areas probably resemble the earth on the first day of creation.

Then she walked away, like Helen of Troy turning her back on Attica. A gust of warm wind blew newspapers along the boulevard into the sky. The light was orange and bleeding out of the clouds in the west, the horizon darkening, the waves crashing on the beach just the other side of Seawall Boulevard, the palm trees rattling dryly in the wind. I could smell the salt and the seaweed and the tiny shellfish that had dried on the beach, like the smell of birth. I

Through the screen, he could smell the evening as though it were a living presence, the purple and yellow flowers in his yard and the dark green wetness of the fescue part of a song that was never supposed to die. Except he could feel things ending, coming apart at the center, and he didn't know why.

There is no higher form of artistic expression then film

It's funny what can happen when you lay bare the heart and join the Earth's old dance through the heavens.

Women are the perfect creation. I don't care who hears that. Even before I hit puberty, they lived nightly in my dreams, and I have the feeling they'll live with me in the grave.

this area, most

The sky was purple, streaked with fire, the palm trees like scorched tin cutouts against the sun. I woke at four in the morning and could not sleep again, my heart congealed with a sense of mortality that I could not explain.

She was one of those women who seemed to choose solitude and plainness over beauty, and anger over happiness.

I read a poem once that had a line in it about a white radiance that stains eternity.

when it comes to understanding the mysteries of creation or the fact that light can enter the eye and form an image in the brain and send a poetic tendril down the arm into a clutch of fingers that could write the Shakespearean sonnets.

beautiful street in the Western world.

It was so beautiful I could hardly keep my eyes off it. "Father, it's so big," I said. He grinned. "This is nothing, Tim. Wait till we get down to Verplancks

By nine, Mildred was powdered, puffed, perfumed, and patted to that state of semi-transparency that a woman seems to achieve when she is really dressed to go out.

Indeed, the whole scene had an ancient, almost classical ugliness to it, for they uttered the same recriminations that have been uttered since the beginning of marriage, and added little of originality to them, and nothing of beauty.

The water, the surf, the colors on the shore. You think they make the beauty of the tropical sea, aye, lad? They do not. 'Tis the knowledge of what lurks below the surface of it, that awful-looking thing, as you call it, that carries death with every move that it makes. So it is, so it is with all beauty.

She laughed, and as she did, Potts felt as if he were watching a dark, silent mountain suddenly blink to life, illuminated by a hundred lights from a small, quaint village that had lived on the mountainside for a hundred years, the village appearing out of nowhere, all the lights aglow at once. Every feature of her face glowed. He found himself wanting to tell her every sorrow he ever knew

The woman, he thought, was all good handwriting.