Quotes About Beauty

I recommend her to you, not as a husband but as an enthusiastic admirer of her work, acid and tender, hard as steel and delicate and fine as a butterfly's wing, lovable as a beautiful smile, and as profound and cruel as the bitterness of life.

A mist is rolling over the fields. Why is a summer mist romantic and autumn mist just sad?

People do look different with their eyes closed, their features seem so much more sculptured.

Mr. Dearly wasn't exactly handsome but he had the kind of face you don't get tired of.

he talked quite naturally while we ate — about the difficulty of finding words to describe the luminous mist, and why one has the desire to describe beauty. Perhaps it's an attempt to possess it, I said. Or be possessed by it; perhaps that's the same thing, really. I suppose it's the complete identification with beauty one's seeking. The mist grew brighter and brighter.

I'm wondering. Shall we say its perfect for the sea and the sunlight - and the other Rose is perfect for candlelight? And perhaps what's most perfect of all is to find there are several Roses?

I decided that it was like the difference between the beautiful old Godsend graves and the new ones open to receive coffins (which I never can bear to look at); that time takes the ugliness and horror out of death and turns it into beauty.

Topaz is beautiful - largely because of the strangeness of her face.

Now, carols are always beautiful, but if you are sad they can make you feel sadder. (There are some people who always find beauty makes them feel sadder, which is a very mysterious thing.)

Once I really looked at the sky, I wanted to go on looking; it seemed to draw me towards it and make me listen hard, though there was nothing to listen to, not so much as a twig was stirring.

I leaned against the carved banisters and listened to the music and felt quite different from any way I have ever felt before -- softer, very beautiful and as if a great many men were in love with me and I might very easily be in love with them.

I wish I could find words--serious, beautiful words--to describe it in the afternoon sunlight; the more I strive for them, the more they utterly elude me.

Perhaps he found beauty saddening – I do myself sometimes. Once when I was quite little I asked father why this was and he explained that it was due to our knowledge of beauty's evanescence, which reminds us that we ourselves shall die.

Because there's so much that just can't be said plainly. Try describing what beauty is - plainly - and you'll see what I mean.

the old towns in the South where queer grey moss hangs from the trees...

I suppose the best kind of spring morning is the best weather God has to offer. It certainly helps one to believe in Him.

I do call it a sign of a beautiful nature if a girl who is in love and surrounded by all the splendour is lonely for her sister.

There are some people who always find beauty makes them feel sadder, which is a very mysterious thing.

red marble drawing-room, where an

Time seems to pass. The world happens, unrolling into moments, and you stop to glance at a spider pressed to its web. There is a quickness of light and a sense of things outlined precisely and streaks of running luster on the bay. You know more surely who you are on a strong bright day after a storm when the smallest falling leaf is stabbed with self-awareness. The wind makes a sound in the pines and the world comes into being, irreversibly, and the spider rides the wind-swayed web.

Sometimes I see something so moving I know I'm not supposed to linger. See it and leave. If you stay too long, you wear out the wordless shock. Love it and trust it and leave.

He said, The word for moonlight is moonlight.

Decorative gestures add romance to a life.

It's the kind of human junk that deepens the landscape, makes it sadder and lonelier and places a vague sad subjective regret at the edge of your response—not regret so much as a sense of time's own esthetic, how strange and still and beautiful a chunk of concrete can be, lived in fleetingly and abandoned, the soul of wilderness signed by men and women passing through.