Quotes About Beauty

But women who have common sense are so curiously plain, father, aren't they? Of course I only speak from hearsay. No woman, plain or pretty, has any common sense at all, sir. Common sense is the privilege of our sex. Quite so. And we men are so self-sacrificing that we never use it, do we, father?

I cannot sympathize with that. It is too ugly, too horrible, too distressing. There is something terribly morbid in the modern sympathy with pain. One should sympathize with the colour, the beauty, the joy of life. The less said about life's sores, the better.

Death must be so beautiful. To lie in the soft brown earth, with grasses waving up above one's head, and listen to silence. To have no yesterday, and no tomorrow. To forget time, to forgive life, to be at peace. 'You can help me. You can open for me the portals of Death's house, for Love is always with you, and Love is stronger than Death is.

Pero, ¿y el retrato? ¿Qué iba a decir del retrato? El lienzo de Basil Hallward contenía el secreto de su vida, narraba su historia. Le había enseñado a amar su propia belleza. ¿Le enseñaría también a aborrecer su propia alma? ¿Volvería alguna vez a mirarlo?

Mediaevalism, with its saints and martyrs, its love of self-torture, its wild passion for wounding itself, its gashing with knives, and its whipping with rods—Mediaevalism is real Christianity, and the mediaeval Christ is the real Christ.  When the Renaissance dawned upon the world, and brought with it the new ideals of the beauty of life and the joy of living, men could not understand Christ. 

I can quite understand a man accepting laws that protect private property, and admit of its accumulation, as long as he himself is able under those conditions to realise some form of beautiful and intellectual life. But it is almost incredible to me how a man whose life is marred and made hideous by such laws can possibly acquiesce in their continuance.

The commonest thing is delightful if only one hides it.

Moral grounds are always the last refuge of people who have no sense of beauty.

When your youth goes, your beauty will go with it, and then you will suddenly discover that there are no triumphs left for you, or have to content yourself with those mean triumphs that the memory of your past will make more bitter than defeats.

Detrás de toda hermosura hay algo trágico

No Artist is ever morbid. The artist can express everything.

Cecily: - La explicación parece satisfactoria, ¿no? Gwendolen: - Sí, siempre que usted le crea. Cecily: - No le creo, pero eso no afecta la belleza de su respuesta

The only beautiful things, as somebody once said, are the things that do not concern us. As long as a thing is useful or necessary to us...it is outside the proper sphere of art.

I have a strange longing for the great simple primeval things, such as the sea, to me no less of a mother than the Earth. It seems to me that we all look at Nature too much, and live with her too little.

She laughed again. Her teeth showed like white seeds in a scarlet fruit.

Because now you are young and beautiful and the whole world loves you. But, some day, you will be old and wrinkled and no-one will give you a second glance. It is a sad fact, but when youth goes, beauty goes with it. If you want my advice, go out and live. Live each day to the full and enjoy all of life's pleasures.

It was his beauty that had ruined him, his beauty and the youth that he had prayed for. But for those two things, his life might have been free from stain. His beauty had been to him but a mask, his youth but a mockery.

Kiedy tak siedzieliÅ›my obok siebie, ujrzaÅ'em w jej oczach coÅ›, czego nigdy wczeÅ›niej nie widziaÅ'em. Moje usta zbli?yÅ'y siÄ™ do jej ust. ZaczÄ™liÅ›my siÄ™ caÅ'owa?. Nie potrafiÄ™ wam opisa?, co wtedy czuÅ'em ZdawaÅ'o mi siÄ™, jakby caÅ'e moje ?ycie zawÄ™ziÅ'o siÄ™ do jednej doskonaÅ'ej chwili, wypeÅ'nionej radoÅ›ciÄ… w barwie ró?.

You have crushed the grapes against your palate. Nothing has been hidden from you. And it has all been to you no more than the sound of music. It has not marred you.

I am glad you don't think I am heartless. I am nothing of the kind. I know I am not. And yet I must admit that this thing that has happened does not affect me as it should. It seems to me to be simply like a wonderful ending to a wonderful play. It has all the terrible beauty of a Greek tragedy, a tragedy in which I took a great part, but by which I have not been wounded.

Your days are your sonnets.

Indeed, no woman should ever be quite accurate about her age.  It looks so calculating .

She is very clever, too clever for a woman. She lacks the indefinable charm of weakness. It is the feet of clay that make the gold of the image precious. Her feet are very pretty, but they are not feet of clay. White porcelain feet, if you like. They have been through the fire, and what fire does not destroy, it hardens. She has had experiences.

Worlds had to be in travail, that the meanest flower might blow. . . .