Quotes About Beauty

Generally, writers descend from a lesser tribe, and whatever claim to beauty we have shows up on the printed page far more often than it does in our mirrors. Even as I writer these words I think of dozens off writers, both male and female, who make a mockery of this generalization. But comeliness among writers is rare enough to be noteworthy.

No city could be more beautiful than Charleston during the brief reign of azaleas, no city on earth.

beneath the great sisterhood of stars unfurling in the night sky . . .

The two fountains spoke to each other in the pretty speech of falling water . . . .

In twenty feet of water, . . . the four of us watched the moonlight play on the surface of the water. It enclosed us in its laceries as we watched the moon spill across the Atlantic like wine from an overturned glass.

Mansions were forming like jewels in my bloodstream.

The city of Charleston, in the green feathery modesty of its palms, in the certitude of its style, in the economy and stringency of its lines, and the serenity of its mansions South of Broad Street, is a feast for the human eye.

In matters of good-lookingness, we writers are the ugliest of the bunch, and normally our appearance is akin to that of someone investigating a crime scene; though the women in American writing keep producing world-class beauty in droves, and there are many breathtaking writers among them.

she was writing a letter in her beautiful penmanship, her sentences all like well-made bracelets.

the world needs more roses far more than it needs more basketball players.

I would say, "Breathe deeply," and you would breathe and remember that smell for the rest of your life, the bold, fecund aroma of the tidal marsh, exquisite and sensual, the smell of the South in heat, a smell like new milk, semen, and spilled wine, all perfumed with seawater. My soul grazes like a lamb on the beauty of indrawn tides.

Few things rivet me like the beauty of moving water.

Yamacraw is beautiful because man has not yet had time to destroy this beauty.

Though I will always be a visitor to Charleston, I will always remain one with a passionate belief that it is the most beautiful city in America and that to walk the old section of the city at night is to step into the bloodstream of a history extravagantly lived by a people born to a fierce and unshakable advocacy of their past.

Beautiful cities have a treacherous nature.

I want to be lovely in death...

You're Beautiful Like the green romance of a bud and lily's pink, gentle sway. You: more beautiful than yesterday. Wildflower's blue surprise. Daisy's white, sunny play. You're more beautiful than yesterday. Orchid's purple mystery Mum's bronze ole` You: more beautiful than yesterday. Rose's orange perfume, even tulip's yellow secrets say: You're more beautiful that yesterday. Poppy's red, teasing lips, but YOUR beauty will never fade. You: more lovely than yesterday, You: my dazzling bouquet.

The tragic irony of our misconceptions about heaven is that the reality of heaven is what every human heart truly desires. The biblical heaven is a place of exquisite beauty, boundless pleasure and endless joy—a place where we will be reunited with the ones we love. God Himself planted those desires within us so that we would want to be with Him for eternity. We were made for heaven.

Watching the day slowly bloom into night. That's how it always seemed to me: not the fading of a withered flower, but the opening of some dark, rich blossom, with unexpected hues and heavy scents.

Oh, yes. He felt the pearls brush down his face again. Dory turned: he met her eyes and let her see the new pearls forming. Anything that beautiful is terrible. Because it's outside of you. It's not you. You'll do anything to make it part of you. You'd eat it, drown in it, kill it, let it kill you. Anything to stop it from not being you.

His face, at once beautiful and feral, revealed no more than the lion's face, which says nothing at all as the lion crouches and waits. It speaks only when it springs.

Her eyes filled with light, like sea-polished amber, and his throat constricted suddenly, too full of words.

The rains began. Hard, constant, they battered the fields, turned the roads to mud, crushed the gold leaves into the ground and turned them black. In the wood, the sodden trees and brambles bowed beneath the torrents.

They rode horses as white as hoarfrost. Snow and star and dark whipped around one another to etch a fine-boned face, eyes of night and crystal fire. Their mantles were of dark wind and snow; their wild hair caught snow and falling stars. The boy watched them, too, longing for their beauty, their mastery over cold and storm. Come to us. This is not your true home. You belong elsewhere. You belong with us.