Quotes About Beauty

La beauté est un don du ciel énorme, immérité, accordé de manière aléatoire et stupide.

He used to wonder how such a frail little body could house so much joy, so much goodness. It couldn't. It spilled out of her, came pouring out her eyes.

Ik deed een stap achteruit en het enige wat ik zag was regen door de ramen die wel van smeltend zilver leken

Afghanistan is like a beautiful mansion littered with garbage, and someone has to take out the garbage. That's what you were doing in Mazar, going door-to-door? Taking out the garbage? - Precisely. In the west, they have an expression for that. They call it ethnic cleansing. - Do they? Ethnic cleansing. I like it. I like the sound of it.

Too much beauty, it corrupts things.

Las malas hierbas del desierto siguen con vida, pero la flor de primavera florece y se marchita. Qué gracia, qué dignidad, qué tragedia.

Everywhere she looked, she saw bright colors: on the drab, gray concrete apartments, on the tin-roofed, open-fronted stores, in the muddy water flowing in the gutters. It was as though a rainbow had melted into her eyes. Rasheed

Aku tidak ingat lagi dari mana kenangan itu berasal, baik bulan maupun tahunnya. Yang kutahu, kenangan itu tersimpan dalam jiwaku, indahnya serpihan masa lalu yang terbungkus rapi, sapuan warna cerah di atas kanvas kelabu kosong yang menyelimuti kehidupan kami.

Buruienile desertului isi duc mai departe traiul, dar florile de primavara infloresc si se ofilesc. Atata gratie, atata demnitate, ce tragedie!

somewhere deep inside, her sister understood dimly that her beauty was a weapon. A loaded gun, with the barrel pointed at her own head.

Esta en la risa de los pequeños, en los versos que recita Aziza y en las oraciones que musita cuando se inclina hacia occidente.Pero, sobre todo, se halla en el corazón de Laila, donde brilla con el esplendor de mil soles.

Pân? am ajuns eu în pia??, soarele aproape coborâse în spatele dealurilor, iar amurgul picta cerul în purpuriu È™i roz.

Las malas hierbas del desierto siguen con vida, pero la flor de primavera florece y se marchita.

The desert weed lives on, but the flower of spring blooms and wilts.' Such grace, such dignity, such a tragedy.

Remember Amir agha. There's no monster, just a beautiful day

Not forever does the bulbul sing In balmy shades of bowers, Not forever lasts the spring Nor ever blossom the flowers. Not forever reigneth joy, Sets the sun on days of bliss, Friendships not forever last, They know not life, who know not this.

A full moon hung across the heavens like a pregnant belly.

Far beyond the trees, the sun peeked its carroty face over the dark blue water, sweeping away the silvery darkness.

As I walked inside, she turned around and headed for the end of the bed. Then she paused and turned to face me. She was wearing her Orchard Hill basketball T-shirt and sweatpants and she looked tired, but beautiful.

And although this (marital love) cannot be portrayed artistically, then let your consolation be, as it is mine, that we are not to read about or listen to or look at what is highest and the most beautiful in life, but are, if you please, to live it. Therefore, when I readily admit that romantic love lends itself much better to artistic portrayal than marital love, this does not at all mean that it is less esthetic than the other - on the contrary, it is more esthetic.

Out there people are working and arguing and laughing, living their beautiful, terrible lives, falling in love and having babies and being bored out of their skulls and feeling depressed, then being consoled by some little thing like watching the patterns the light makes through the leaves of trees, casting shadows on the sidewalks. I remember the line from that poem now. Downward to darkness, on extended wings.

He carried Paul inside and up the stairs. He gave him a drink of water and the orange chewable aspirin he like and sat with him on the bed, holding his hand...This was what he yearned to capture on film: these rare moments where the world seemed unified, coherent, everything contained in a single fleeting image. A spareness that held beauty and hope and motion - a kind of silvery poetry, just as the body was poetry in blood and flesh and bone.

The challenges in this place are real and sometimes very difficult, but I've learned to slow down and look for beauty in my days, for the mysteries and blessings woven into everything, into the very words we speak.

a vase full of flowers: dark red and pale pink in a cloud of baby's breath.