Quotes About Beauty

Imparavamo la meravigliosa verità che essere adorati rende adorabili

It was where, when darkness fell, it fell absolutely, and when you went outside the wind sometimes drew apart the clouds and you stood in the revelation of so many stars you could not credit the wonder and felt smaller in body as your soul felt enormous.

The sun's still keeping the sky somewhat colored, even though it's already gone down beyond the horizon. There are strips of patterned pinks and oranges layered up like sideways colored bars. A Los Angeles sunset, made beautiful by a screen of haze, pollution, and trash. It says a lot about this city. It says a lot about the people who live here.

XIV Solo con la belleza me conformo La fealdad me produce dolor I go along only with beauty Ugliness hurts me.

It was the most silent, beautiful city I had ever been in, and I found myself wishing, once or twice, that I was here alone, not worrying about our relationship, not having to make an effort. I would have walked and walked along the deserted paths, not speaking, storing everything up. I wouldn't have minded the rain.

Questo ti volevo dire. Ho rotto il nostro patto ma forse é stato meglio così. Ora basta però, non ti voglio rattristare. Mia madre mi ha detto che sei bellissima e io lo sapevo. Quando eravamo piccoli ero sicuro che saresti diventata miss Italia. P.s. Preparati, che quando passo da Bologna ti prendo e ti porto via.

And as he spoke of understanding, I looked up and saw the rainbow leap with flames of many colors over me.

Social networks are these intricate things of beauty, and they're so elaborate and so complex and so ubiquitous that one has to ask what purpose they serve.

The peacock's gaudy tail does not enable him to fly any higher, but it raises his status in the eyes of the peahen.

It was a marvellous morning, clear as a mirror, warm as the promise of love, bright as heaven.

It wasn't that they were all pretty, but they were all attractive; they'd obviously taken endless trouble over their appearance, playing up any good feature and being clever about the remainder, and it was really delightful to walk down a street past this moving frieze of faces and figures, each of which seemed to have its own cunning distinction. They

He was neither good looking nor ugly, and while he would not have turned a young girl's head, someone older might have been struck by his face and the evidence of passion which had left its traces. ~p17

When a unicorn is slain, men have destroyed again the image of beauty that they seek.

My name is Tomlyn. I am very beautiful. Marshall says I am spiteful and wicked and a barbarian to boot. He's jealous of my thick grey fur, my white chin and breast, and the snowy end of my tail. I suppose he can't help being envious, the great rusty-black thing! He's got a big, blunt beak, and stubby wings, and tiny little eyes... He's old and stupid and a coward; with an endless flow of long words that he can't possibly understand.

Poems do seem to want to announce, over and over, that life's warm zephyrs are blowing past and the gravestones are just beyond the next rise. Little groupings of gravestones, all leaning and cracked, with a rusty black Victorian fence around them. They're just over that rise. Poets never want to forget that. And actually we need to hear that sometimes.

There are too many poems about death. Death, churchyards, wormy cadavers. Death is really a small part of life, and it's not the part that you want to concentrate on, because life is life and it's full of untold particulars.

You need the art in order to love the life.

I would like to visit the factory that makes train horns, and ask them how they are able to arrive at that chord of eternal mournfulness. Is it deliberately sad? Are the horns saying, Be careful, stay away from this train or it will run you over and then people will grieve, and their grief will be as the inconsolable wail of this horn through the night? The out-of-tuneness of the triad is part of its beauty.

Anyway, she sings like a mad tropical bird, and it's just a fondue of molten wanting and grieving and the sadness of the large naked swinging breasts and soft olive skin and everything that you wish you could remember and feel and know.

In that instant, I was a tiny grain of life gifted with being able to observe the inexplicable vastness of the universe, and the only thing that mattered was the excruciating beauty of being there. Of being there to experience it all.

Something about being overwhelmed, just momentarily, by the beauty of existence.

Pain and beauty, our constant bedfellows

he never felt that way about Japanese - even though he didn't understand it. The fluid monotonic sound of it alone made it a far more beautiful and spiritual language. English, with its heavy stresses and wobbly intonation, was dirty and repugnant to his ears

I'm very happy to hear that my work inspires writers and painters. It's the most beautiful compliment, the greatest reward. Art should always be an exchange.