Quotes About Beauty

The dogwood blossom was gone, azaleas in full bloom, and the air cupped my cheek as softly as a woman's hand.

Albinoni streamed as clear as the sun into the dining room. The old mahogany glowed like bronze. The flatware winked.

Her bright red lipstick couldn't hide the fatigue in her smile.

Hild stepped forward so the moon caught her face, thin and pale.

She laid her hand, brief and light as a drift of hawthorn blossom, on Hild's head.

When she climbed out of the car, I saw the difference, the sleekness, her buttocks as ripe as mangoes, her arms and legs plump and muscled.

This one's as pretty as a grass snake, but much more dangerous.

In this light, her hair was the colr of sandstone. She was sandstone: a spire of rock rising from an otherwise featureless desert. No toeholds.

She wiped her eyes, her not-blue eyes, and walked on through a drift of rain so fine it settled on her sleeve like dew.

Poison had made the world so beautiful.

Hild looked down at her reflection. A tall, obdurate woman gazed back. Blue-green veil band embroidered with gold-and-silver thread, sewn with lapis and agate and beryl. Agate swinging from each ear. Heavy yellow gold resting between her breasts. Dyed-blue girdle. A matching purse with ivory lid.

A woman with hair a dusty black-brown and eyes of deep blue-the deep dark blue of the dome of sky late in summer when the day turns towards night, but dark won't fall, not quite, because summer wants to stay, hold on the world, linger forever.

The first thing that caught her eye was one of J.C. Dahl's huge paintings of fjord light and water. She stood before it and her restlessness dropped away. She became as still as the deep dark of the fjord. I know if I put my hands on her shoulders, they would be soft and relaxed. This was a Julia I had not seen before: distant, analytical, expert.

I'm not pretty." "You don't need to be pretty. You're like lightning. Like a tide. Like a blizzard." "Something to run from." "Something to get caught up in. Somthing to remember for the rest of your life.

The lake sometimes has a mind of its own; there's no telling how it might treat you.

I looked at my hands, turned them over in the tarnished shine of streetlights seeping through a crack in the curtains. They were long; strong and competent with nicely shaped nails; hard enough for a palm strike, soft enough to trace gentle arabesques on a taut trembling stomach or along a soft inner thigh. The stains did not show.

Her smile was warm, her hand pressure brief but sincere, and her makeup flawless.

Her own sea-grey with green to his sea-green with grey.

His hazel eyes shone with something. Perhaps it was the reflection of new leaves. She hoped so.

Poetry rescues things by reconciling matter and spirit in the metaphor.

Todo necesita justificar su existencia, salvo la obra de arte.

Las matemáticas son la poesía del principio de identidad.

Only those who secretly propagate the admiration of beauty conspire effectively against today's world

It is enough for beauty to touch our tedium for our heart to be torn like silk between the hands of life.