Quotes About Beauty

The world is so fundamentally interesting that it makes me fall in love with it a dozen times a day.

Well actually the beauty of my work is after doing over 1,000 readings bringing through non-celebrities, celebrities as a soul everybody fundamentally comes through the same way.

It was inevitable that Flynn would notice her. It wasn't her figure that attracted him, because Beverly is a small-bosomed girl. It was her legs, of course - her long legs in those black net stockings. Later, when Errol and I became good friends, he told me why: I'm not a breast man, he said. I'm a leg man. You can't make love to a breast.

Americans worship creativity the way they worship physical beauty - as a way of enjoying elitism without guilt: God did it.

Bendito sea el día, y el mes, y el año, y la estación, y el tiempo, y la hora, y el punto, y el encantador pueblo, y el sitio en el cual tus hermosos ojos me encadenaron. Y bendita la dulce agonía de entregarme a ese amor, y el arco y las saetas que me alcanzaron, y las llagas que llegaron a lo más profundo de mi corazón. Benditas sean las palabras que esparcí cantando el nombre de mi amada, y los suspiros, y las lágrimas y el deseo.

Worthy would-be worlds of words, whorls of working wonder.

You can't kill a minuet de la coeur. You may shut up the music book... but surely the minuet-- the minuet itself is dancing itself away into the furthest stars, even as our minuet of the Hessian bathing places must be stepping itself still.

He thought about her deliberately. Hard. Nothing happened. He thought of her fair, undistinguished, fresh face that made your heart miss a beat when you thought about it. His heart missed a beat. Obedient heart! Like the first primrose. Not any primrose. The first primrose.

Now a man listening to gossip about another man whom he knows very well will go pretty far in the way of believing what a beautiful woman will tell him about that other man. Beauty and truth have a way of appearing to be akin; and it is true that no man knows what another man is doing when he is out of sight.

From time to time we shall get up and go to the door and look out at the great moon and say: 'Why, it is nearly as bright as in Provence!' And then we shall come back to the fireside, with just the touch of a sigh because we are not in that Provence where even the saddest stories are gay.

A gentleman in those days consulted his heirs about tree planting. Should you plant a group of copper beeches against a group of white maples over against the ha-ha a quarter of a mile from the house so that the contrast seen from the ball-room windows should be agreeable—in thirty years' time? In those days thought, in families, went in periods of thirty years, owner gravely consulting heir who should see that development of light and shade that the owner never would.

I know!' Father Consett said. 'You're a beautiful woman. Some men would say it was a lucky fellow that lived with you. I don't ignore the fact in my cogitation. He'd imagine all sorts of delights to lurk in the shadow of your beautiful hair. And they wouldn't.' Sylvia brought her gaze down from the ceiling and fixed her brown eyes for a moment on the priest, speculatively.

It is very extraordinary to see the perfect flush of health on her cheeks, to see the lustre of her coiled black hair, the poise of the head upon the neck, the grace of the white hands - and to think that it all means nothing - that it is a picture without a meaning. Yes, it is queer.

Seemed like you could stretch out your arms on either side and touch the mountains. Straight up they went, dark and feathered with treetops, and left a thin slice of stars above us. Way off, a mourning dove called, long and throaty, and the mountains picked it up and echoed the sound over and over, carrying it farther and farther away until you wondered how many mountains and hollows that call would travel--and it died away, so far, it was more like a memory than a sound.

And then smelling it, feeling it before the sound even reaches him, he kneels at cliff's edge and for the first time, turns his head toward the now visible falls that gush over a quarter- mile of uplifted sheet- granite across the valley and he pauses, lowering his eyes for a moment, unable to withstand the tranquility—vast, unencumbered, terrifying, and primal.

I believe that only poetry counts ... A great novelist is first of all a great poet.

Nothing in the world is quite as adorably lovely as a robin when he shows off and they are nearly always doing it.

The robin flew from his swinging spray of ivy on to the top of the wall and he opened his beak and sang a loud, lovely trill, merely to show off. Nothing in the world is quite as adorably lovely as a robin when he shows off - and they are nearly always doing it.

As she came closer to him she noticed that there was a clean fresh scent of heather and grass and leaves about him, almost as if he were made of them. She liked it very much and when she looked into his funny face with the red cheeks and round blue eyes she forgot that she had felt shy.

Everything is made out of Magic, leaves and trees, flowers and birds, badgers and foxes and squirrels and people. So it must be all around us.

I am writing in the garden. To write as one should of a garden one must write not outside it or merely somewhere near it, but in the garden.

One marvel of a day he had walked so far that when he returned the moon was high and full and all the world was purple shadow and silver.

That afternoon the whole world seemed to devote itself to being perfect and radiantly beautiful and kind to one boy.

and her mother had been a great beauty who cared only to go to parties and amuse herself with gay parties.