Quotes About Beauty

In point of fact, she had never looked as well. She had entered her room as just an impossibly lovely girl. The woman who emerged was a trifle thinner, a great deal wiser, an ocean sadder. This one understood the nature of pain, and beneath the glory of her features, there was character, and a sure knowledge of suffering. She

I don't know how to describe it so I won't, but if you died and in your will you asked for your ashes to be spread gently on the Grand Canal at midnight with a full moon, everyone would know this about you - you loved and understood beauty.

Butch: What happened to the old bank? It was beautiful. Guard: People kept robbing it. Butch: Small price to pay for beauty.

Better than Grace Kelly but no Sophia Loren.

Necesito vuestro consejo —les interrumpió Buttercup—. ¿Qué puedo hacer para mejorar mi apariencia personal? —Empieza por bañarte —repuso su padre. —Y, de paso, hazte algo en ese pelo —le dijo su madre. —Excávate el territorio que llevas detrás de las orejas. —No te olvides de las rodillas.

sublimity than the aspect of this coast, as it is

We do not see nature with our eyes, but with our understandings and our hearts.

All that is worth remembering in life, is the poetry of it

Nobody is bored when he is trying to make something that is beautiful, or to discover something that is true.

DOC    Yes, you want to study hard, Marie, learn to be a fine artist some day. Paint lots of beautiful pictures. I remember a picture my mother had over the mantelpiece at home, a picture of a cathedral in a sunset, one of those big cathedrals in Europe somewhere. Made you feel religious just to look at it.

You have never seen ugliness in a happy face.

The supreme contemporary example of such an inability to feel evil is of course Walt Whitman. His favorite occupation, writes his disciple, Dr. Bucke seemed to be strolling or sauntering about outdoors by himself, looking at the grass, the trees, the flowers, the vistas of light, the varying aspects of the sky, and listening to the birds, the crickets, the tree frogs, and all the hundreds of natural sounds.

The miracle is this: that you will rise in the morning and be able to see again the startling beauty of the day.

The beauty isn't in the jewel itself, but in the way the light shines through it.

And whether you believe in miracles or not, I can guarantee that you will experience one. It may not be the miracle you've prayed for. God probably won't undo what's been done. The miracle is this: that you will rise in the morning and be able to see again the startling beauty of the day.

Ask me, God's right here. In the dirt, the rain, the sky, the trees, the apples, the stars in the cottonwoods. In you and me, too. It's all connected and it's all God. Sure this is hard work, but it's good work because it's a part of what connects us to this land, Buck. This beautiful, tender land.

Ciano also heard hints "of the Fuehrer's tender feelings for a beautiful girl. She is twenty years old, with beautiful quiet eyes, regular features and a magnificent body. Her name is Sigrid von Lappus. They see each other frequently and intimately." (The Ciano Diaries, p. 85.)

Surely the Germans must be the ugliest-looking people in Europe, individually. Not a decent-looking woman in the whole Linden. Their awful clothes probably contribute to one's impression.

Moss covered paths between scarlet peonies, Pale jade mountains fill your rustic windows. I envy you, drunk with flowers, Butterflies swirling in your dreams.

Comme le ciel est beau ce soir ! On dirait une mer violette, sur une mer rouge sur une mer bleue. Et les maisons : des barques qui s'endorment au fond du port. Mais le soleil est déjà couché. Il commence à faire froid. Il faut que je rentre chez moi.

Art Nouveau was coil-envy.

A blast, an acceleration, the distillate, the spirit, the history, the weaponized soul of convulsive beauty went critical.

Can living artwork die? Can it live before it dies?

Old stories would tell how Weavers would kill each other over aesthetic disagreements, such as whether it was prettier to destroy an army of a thousand men or to leave it be, or whether a particular dandelion should or should not be plucked. For a Weaver, to think was to think aesthetically. To act--to Weave--was to bring about more pleasing patterns. They did not eat physical food: they seemed to subsist on the appreciation of beauty.