Quotes About Beauty

If you're not a sex symbol, you're in trouble.

I cry out for order and find it only in art.

The Moment opens. The moment closes. There is sunlight. There is frost. There is the brief idea of roses amid the patch of weeds.

Emily Williamson never thought she would find commitment so liberating, that her conviction to her cause could promote such happiness within her. She stands in the London sunshine, watching Mrs. Phillips model as a heron, and she feels nothing but gratitude and wonder at the beauty of life.

The best and most beautiful things in the world cannot be seen, nor touched ... but are felt in the heart.

Each day comes to me with both hands full of possibilities, and in its brief course I discern all the verities and realities of my existence; the bliss of growth, the glory of action, the spirit of beauty.

It's wonderful to climb the liquid mountains of the sky. Behind me and before me is God and I have no fears.

The best and most beautiful things cannot be seen or even heard, they must be felt with the heart.

The hawk had filled the house with wildness as a bowl of lilies fills a house with scent.

the world is full of signs and wonders that come, and go, and if you are lucky you might see them. Once, twice. Perhaps never again.

There's a special phenomenology to walking in woods in winter.

Deep in the muddled darkness six copper pheasant feathers glowed in a cradle of blackthorn.

We call them murmurations, but the Danish term, sort sol , is better: black sun.

Now that Dad was gone I was starting to see how mortality was bound up in things like that cold, arc-lit sky. How the world is full of signs and wonders that come, and go, and if you are lucky you might see them. Once, twice. Perhaps never again.

Vast flocks of fieldfares netted the sky, turning it to something strangely like a sixteenth-century sleeve sewn with pearls.

Someone once told me that every writer has a subject that underlies everything they write. It can be love or death, betrayal or belonging, home or hope or exile. I choose to think that my subject is love, and most specifically love for the glittering world of non-human life around us.

a torn-paper whiteness behind the sun that speaks of frost to come.

I watch the cranes scratching their beaks with their toes and think of how the starling flocks that pour into reed beds like grain turn all of a sudden into birds perching on bowed stems, bright-eyed, their feathers spangled with white spots that glow like small stars. I marvel at how confusion can be resolved by focusing on the things from which it is made. The magic of the flocks is this simple switch between geometry and family.

Looking for goshawks is like looking for grace: it comes, but not often, and you don't get to say when or how. But you have a slightly better chance on still, clear mornings in early spring

Falling in love is a desolating experience, but not when it is with a countryside.

It's so beautifully made,' she said. 'It's like a Prada shoe.

The goshawk is staring at me in mortal terror, and I can feel the silences between both our heartbeats coincide. Her eyes are luminous, silver in the gloom. Her beak is open. She breathes hot hawk breath in my face. It smells of pepper and musk and burned stone. Her feathers are half-raised and her wings half-open, and her scaled yellow toes and curved black talons grip the glove tightly. It feels like I'm holding a flaming torch.

I was looking down at a little sprig of mahonia growing out of the turf, its oxblood leaves like buffed pigskin.

A sparrowhawk, light as a toy of balsa-wood and doped tissue-paper, zipped past at knee-level, kiting up over a bank of brambles and away into the trees.