Quotes About Beauty

When a creature begins to emerge from it's chrysails there is a point at which it is neither one thing nor the other, not quite grown into a new identity nor rid of the old one. It's wings are folded and sticky, it's colours hidden. Whether it will emerge in shades of emerald and lapis lazuli or the colour of mud is yet to be revealed. It is that long, still, moment of waiting that fascinates me utterly. The suspence of waiting for beauty to unfurl.

then I just closed my eyes and watched the blossom petals fall and

Me gusta cómo se amontona la nieve en lo alto de los postes telefónicos y se acumula en los cables formando líneas blancas finas y alargadas. Hay huecos donde se han posado los pájaros, como si estuvieran deletreando mensajes en código morse. Punto punto punto. Raya raya raya. Punto punto punto.

What annoys me most is that it takes no effort to be born beautiful, no hard work, no mental agility, no strength of character. Just dumb luck. And yet it's a universal currency, often mistaken for moral superiority.

fawn face , the expression a deer makes not when it's caught in headlights but when it catches a human looking at it in wonder. The deer looks back, acknowledging not only its own terror but its own grace, and it shows off for a moment in front of the human. It flirts.

Love transcended breath, eczema, fear of sex, and an imbalance in physical appearance. If love was real, then these bodily, human details could seem insignificant.

mostly they had to take pleasure in the moments that no one else would ever witness.

But what happened to the talented women who lacked sharp cheekbones or an ease in the universe? The ones who had no attachments to powerful men?

and he was afraid she was going to get that middle-aged coven-member look cultivated by some older women with long hair.

She was sexy in a malnourished way; you felt that if you took her to bed, first you would have to give her a hot meal.

Obviously, there's the seedy side of the strip club world and pole dancing. But, pole dancing, as an art form, is really beautiful. It's been hyper-sexualized because it's associated with strippers, but if you think about it, just in terms of other kinds of dancing, they're using an instrument to create these amazing dance forms.

It felt like you could hurt her just by looking at her, or you could never hurt her at all.

Bobby pins crunching under my feet, I walk through, surveying the damaged girlness.

Beautiful, he says, and she could titrate like a motherfucker.

That was what gymnastics did, though. It aged girls and kept them young forever at the same time. And

That's what people never understand: They see us hard little pretty things, brightly lacquered and sequin-studded, and they laugh, they mock, they arouse themselves. They miss everything. You see, these glitters and sparkle dusts and magicks? It's war paint, it's feathers and claws, it's blood sacrifice.

Maybe the ending was the best part - the only time you saw the beauty in it all.

Everything was beautiful and nothing hurt. The

Their mother, that swan neck, those elegant arms. Her dark hair gathered up tightly with her grandmother's dragonfly combs. So dignified, so refined, carrying so much inside all the time. Surrounded all day by mirrors and never letting anyone see.

It all unfurled like a mink from a femme fatale's shoulders in an old film noir. All those tales of a taloned beauty with expensive tastes, her callow lover, the unwitting husband, a staged accident for a big insurance payout. They never ended well. Suddenly, Dara felt a coldness inside. It was all so tacky, so déclassé, a voice inside said. It was all so cheap. So unbearably sad.

That's what people never understand: They see us hard little pretty things, brightly lacquered and sequin-studded, and they laugh, they mock, they arouse themselves. They miss everything. You see, these glitters, and sparkle dusts and magicks? It's war paint, it's feathers and claws, it's blood sacrifice.

If it hadn't been what it was, it would've been beautiful.

That's what people never understand: They see us hard little pretty things, brightly lacquered and sequin-studded, and they laugh, they mock, they arouse themselves. They miss everything. You see, these glitters and sparkle dusts and magicks? It's war paint, it's feather and claws, it's blood sacrifice.

If we look at it from eye corners, or from places other than the center of our head, isn't there a kind of terrible beauty in it?