Quotes About Beauty

Author Elisabeth Kübler-Ross reminds us, "Should you shield the canyons from the windstorms, you would never see the beauty of their carvings.

I was tired of seeing the Graces always depicted as beautiful young things. I think wisdom comes with age and life and pain. And knowing what matters.

The leaves had fallen from the trees and lay crisp and crackling beneath his feet. Picking one up he marveled, not for the first time, at the perfection of nature where leaves were most beautiful at the very end of their lives.

Light is every bit as challenging as dark. We can discover a great deal about ourselves by looking at beauty.

Gamache enjoyed going to churches for their music and the beauty of the language and the stillness. But he felt closer to God in his Volvo.

Funny how imperfections on the outside mean something splendid beneath.

Ring the bells that still can ring, Forget your perfect offering, There's a crack in everything, That's how the light gets in.' 'What an extraordinary poem. Ruth Zardo?' 'Leonard Cohen. Clara used it in her piece. She wrote it on the wall behind the three of you, like graffiti.

The world turned upside down,' Beauvoir continued. 'It was at once more beautiful and more frightening than you'd been led to believe. And suddenly you didn't know what to do. Who to trust. Where to turn. It's terrifying. Being lost is so much worse than being on the wrong road. That's why people stay on it for so long.

She painted what appeared to be portraits, but that was only on the surface. The beautifully rendered flesh stretched, and sometimes sagged, over wounds, over celebrations. Over chasms of loss and rushes of joy. She painted peace and despair. All in one portrait. With brush and canvas and oils, Clara both captured and freed her subject.

The glass was old. Leaded. Imperfect. And it was the imperfections that were creating the play of light.

Their lives could not be defined by their deaths. They belonged not in perpetual pain but in the beauty of their short lives.

It's good to be reminded now and then that such things exist." "What things?" "Beauty. Peace." She held his eyes. "Goodness. But they're fragile and can so easily disappear, unless people are willing to do what's necessary to defend them.

It was a perfect time of year, when late summer flowers were still blooming and the leaves were turning, and the grass was still green, but the nights were chilly and sweaters were out and fires were beginning to be lit. So that the hearths at night resembled the forests in the day, all giddy and bright and cheerful. Soon everyone would head back to the

the clatter of pots and pans and dishes. To others it was a cacophony. To Anton it was a symphony.

ahead. But at his core he believed the world a lovely place. And his

Below that was the thrum of bumblebees climbing in and over and around the peonies. Getting lost. Bumbling around. It looked comical, ridiculous. But then so much did, unless you knew.

She seemed tired, but also calm. "It's good to be reminded now and then that such things exist." "What things?" "Beauty. Peace." She held his eyes. "Goodness. But they're fragile and can so easily disappear, unless people are willing to do what's necessary to defend them.

Reine-Marie put her head back and laughed. Armand smiled, then turned full circle. His gaze took in the dark forests and luminous homes, the three huge pines and the soft snow falling from the sky, as though the Heavens had opened, and all the angels were joining them. Here. Here. "Dad." Armand turned.

He wanted them to soar. To find, if not heaven, then at least happiness. Oh, I have slipped the surly bonds of earth," said Gamache. "You quoted the poem 'High Flight' when we first talked." "Charles's favorite. He was a naval aviator in the war. And danced the skies on laughter silvered wings. Beautiful.

He looked at the canvas and saw bold swirls of reds and greens and yellows. And bright blues. All intermingled. They formed no image. And he got no feeling. He closed his eyes. Paused. When he opened them, he let the painting come to him. To enter through his heart, not his head. With Clara's painting, like all great works of creation, there was more than met the eye.

I have seen flowers come in stony places, And kind things done by men with ugly faces,' Gamache said,

No one could look at the beautiful young man now. They dropped their eyes from the scalding sight. From the eclipse. As all that love turned into hate.

he knew most places felt just a little sad in spring, when the bright and playful snow had gone and the flowers and trees hadn't yet bloomed. The

Outside, clouds had once again rolled in and brought with them snow. Again. Huge soft flakes, as though the clouds themselves were breaking up and drifting down in pieces.