Quotes About Beauty

It's so odd and hard to substitute the paintbrush now for that strangely familiar but always remote thing, the word. The extreme and intimate beauty is within it.

Life, my love, is a great seduction in which all that exists seduces.

Qué era la poesía, en realidad, esa palabra vergonzosa? ¿Era encontrarse cuando, casualmente, caía una lluvia repentina sobre la ciudad? ¿O tal vez mirar al mismo tiempo, mientras tomaba un refresco, el rostro de una mujer que pasaba por la calle? ¿O incluso encontrarse casualmente en la vieja noche de luna y viento.

I see the flowers in the vase. They are wild flowers and were born without being planted. They are yellow.

Even though I know that a plant produces flowers, I am still surprised by nature's secret paths.

I plunge into the almost pain of an intense happiness— and to adorn me leaves and branches spring up in my hair.

No quiero la belleza, quiero la identidad.

I thought of something so beautiful that I couldn't understand it. And I ended up forgetting what it was.

The sunflowers slowly turn their corollas toward the sun. The wheat is ripe. The bread is eaten with sweetness. My impulse connects to that of the roots of the trees.

Perguntei que bicho era aquele mas na pergunta o tom talvez incluísse: por que você faz isso? Que carência é essa que faz você inventar um cachorro? E por que não um cachorro mesmo então? Pois se os cachorros existem! Ou você não teve outro modo de possuir a graça desse bicho senão com uma coleira? Mas você esmaga uma rosa se apertá-la com carinho demais.

I thought of something so beautiful that I couldn't even understand it. And I ended up forgetting what it was.

Cuando el arte es bueno es porque tocó lo inexpresivo, el peor arte es el expresivo, aquel que transgrede el trozo de hierro y el trozo de cristal, y la sonrisa, y el grito.

Its form doesn't matter: no form manages to circumscribe and alter it. Mirror is light. A tiny piece of mirror is always the whole mirror.

And I am in the world as free and slender as a deer on the plain. I get up as soft as a breath of air, raise my sleepy flower head, my feet light, I cross fields beyond the earth, world, time, God.

I'm going to make an adagio. Read slowly and with peace. It's a wide fresco.

Há coisas que só se aprende quando ninguém as ensina. E com a vida é assim. Mesmo há mais beleza em descobri-la sozinha, apesar do sofrimento.

He hablado mucho sobre la muerte. Pero voy a hablarte ahora sobre el soplo de vida. Cuando uno ya no respira se le hace la respiración boca a boca; se pega la boca a la boca del otro y se respira. Y el otro empieza a respirar otra vez. Este intercambio de respiración es una de las cosas más bellas que he oído contar de la vida. En realidad la belleza de este boca a boca me está deslumbrando.

Behind each thing a shadow lies; Beauty hath e'er its cost: Within the moonlight-flooded skies How many stars are lost!

A PRECEPT With words of ivory, Of bronze, of ebony, Of alabaster, marble, steel, and gold, The beauty of the visible is told. But how with these express The unseen Loveliness— Splendour and light, and harmony, and sound, The heart hath felt, the sense hath never found? No shining words of stone— Shadow and cloud alone— These shall the poet seek eternally, Whose lines would carve the mask of Mystery.

I could never again see the evening sun fading into oblivion without feeling lonely.

ABOUT: KAHLIL GIBRAN "His power came from some great reservoir of spiritual life else it could not have been so universal and so potent, but the majesty and beauty of the language with which he clothed it were all his own." -- Claude Bragdon

Art is the most beautiful deception of all. And although people try to incorporate the everyday events of life in it, we must hope that it will remain a deception lest it become a utilitarian thing, sad as a factory.

His sad expression, now, that isolates Irene and me, destroying the universe around us. It's his turn to envy me, twenty years after those days when the beauty, elegance and notoriety of his mistresses gave him, in my eyes, a painful prestige. The apparent modesty of my triumph doesn't at all diminish its cruelty. I feel almost happy over the sufferings of this man. His solitude wins me from my own.

I am following Nature without being able to grasp her, I perhaps owe having become a painter to flowers.