Quotes About Beauty

Never underestimate the value of superior hair as a literary influence.

Pearls are congealed oyster spit.

Jon smashes things, and glues the shards into place in the pattern of breakage. I can see the appeal.

My heart would hear her and beat, Were it earth in an earthy bed; My dust would hear her and beat, Had I lain for a century dead; Would start and tremble under her feet, And blossom in purple and red. —ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON, Maud, 1855.

Life is not about hair...hair is about life. It is the flame of the body's candle, and as it dwindles the body shrinks and melts away.

Why is it that really beautiful people think everyone else in the world exists merely for their amusement?

Shiny new toes make you feel all fresh and sparkling: if someone wants to suck your toes, those toes should be worth sucking.

If it hurts and you feel sick and it's making you ugly, take this, from HelthWyzer; if you're ugly and it hurts and you feel sick about it, take that, from AnooYoo.

Mushrooms were the roses in the garden of that unseen world, because

you appear without prelude midway between my eyes and the nearest trees, your colours bright, your outline flattened suspended in the air with no more reason for occurring exactly here than this billboard, this highway or that cloud.

She says the clogs are comfortable, and that comfort trumps fashion as far as she's concerned. Gavin has tried quoting Yeats to the effect that women must labour to be beautiful, but Reynolds Ã¢â'¬â€œ who used to be a passionate Yeats fan Ã¢â'¬â€œ is now of the opinion that Yeats is entitled to his point of view, but that was then and social attitudes were different, and in actual fact Yeats is dead. Reynolds

Anyway, my dearest one, we still have the moon.

The line of her cheek has a marble, a classic, a simplicity; to look at her is to believe that suffering does indeed purify.

She's so beautiful she glows in the dark.

there are some things that do not fare well in high definition. She resents the pores, the wrinkles, the nose hairs, the impossibly whitened teeth shoved right up in front of your eyes so you can't ignore them the way you would in real life.

I wonder if I should let my hair go grey so my advice will be better.

The light flickers on all of us and makes us look softer and more beautiful than we really are. But sometimes it makes us darker and scarier too, when the faces go into shadow and you can't see the eyes, only the eye sockets. Deep pools of blackness welling out of our heads. My

the ladies who were going in, frightened by the first signs of droop and pucker, then going out again, buffed and tightened and resurfaced, irradiated and resurfaced. But still frightened, because when might the whole problem - the whole thing - start happening to them again? The whole signs-of-mortality thing. The whole thing thing. Nobody likes it, thought Toby - being a body, a thing.

What well-to-do and once-young, once-beautiful woman or man, cranked up on hormonal supplements and shot full of vitamins but hampered by the unforgiving mirror, wouldn't sell their house, their gated retirement villa, their kids, and their soul to get a second kick at the sexual can?

And it's late at night: a cloudless night, as I observed while walking here. The full moon is out, casting her equivocal corpse-glow over all.

Back to the man's face. Not a handsome face as such, but a face you could trust. Sort of like a math teacher, or a minister. You can tell he's sincere, and sincere is better than handsome. Really handsome men were a bad idea, said Grandma Win, because they had too much to choose from. Too much what? Charmaine had asked her, and Grandma Win said, Never mind.

It was love, after all, that rubbed the skins from their gray cheeks, crippled their fingers, snarled their hair, brown or dull gold. Hate would merely have smashed them.

Why do you want to talk about ugly things? she said. ... We should think only beautiful things, as much as we can. There is so much beautiful in the world if you look around. You are looking only at the dirt under your feet, Jimmy. It's not good for you. She would never tell him. Why did this drive him so crazy? It wasn't real sex was it? he asked. In the movies. It was only acting. Wasn't it? But Jimmy, you should know. All sex is real.

You think I didn't hate their pity, their forced kindness? And knowing that no matter what I did, how virtuous I was, or hardworking, I would never be beautiful. Not like her, the one who merely had to sit there to be adored. You wonder why I stabbed the blue eyes of my dolls with pins and pulled their hair out until they were bald? Life isn't fair. Why should I be?