Quotes About Beauty

I thought of how much I loved Louis, and had ever since I became Lestat's fledgling. I thought of how deeply I depended upon him, and what I would do for him. It was the love of Louis which had at times crippled Lestat, and enslaved Armand. Louis need have no consciousness of his own beauty, of his own obvious and natural charm.

Lestat was holding me by the shoulders. I could barely stand. In fact, if he had let me go I would have fallen. I couldn't take my eyes off the pink-throated lillies.

Si soy un ángel, píntame con alas negras.

He didn't have to make the flowers fall," I said. "I taught him not to hurt things that were pretty. I taught him that when we were small.

Beauty carries us to our doom. Or, to put it more accurately, we are made by immortal by those who cannot sever themselves from our charms.

I had never seen anything as beautiful as this painting, with its immense crowd of still attentive faces, its splendid collection of angels and saints, its lithe and graceful feline women and willowy celestial men. I went crazy for it.

Rosse eran le labbra, lo sguardo forte, gialle come l'oro le chiome torte, bianca la pelle qual lebbra fatale, l'Incubo era lei, VITA-NELLA-MORTE, che fredda addensa il sangue mortale.

His eyes were on me and I didn't have the slightest intention of looking away. Nevertheless, I looked him up and down because I couldn't help it, and becuase he was as breathtaking as he has always described himself to be. and I had to see him, truly see him, even if he was to be the last thing I ever saw.

I had never heard the notes quite as limpid and translucent, quite as flashing and exquisitely distinct.

His skin was a pale golden that offset his violet blue eyes wonderfully, and his hair was a true mane of yellow, tousled and curling just above his shoulders. His colored glasses almost the same violet tint as his eyes, were pushed up into his hair, and h was staring at me, golden eyebrows scowled slightly, waiting perhaps for me to regain my senses; I honestly didn't know.

Te lo puedes imaginar, esta espléndida situación doméstica, el padre vampiro que canta a su hija vampiro? Únicamente la muñeca tenía un rostro humano, únicamente la muñeca.

I love you," he said. "Why?" "Because you are beautiful to me. Because you can see me. Because you are all the things in a human being which I myself desire. Because you are human and warm and soft. And I know you, and have known the others before you.

What engraved itself into my consciousness was his face-square and taut, the eyes very big and the well-shaped mouth voluptuous, and the jaw somewhat hard, the whole more truly well proportioned and appealing than he could ever have claimed.

What is it in me that will not acknowledge my admiration for her mind, her beauty, her exquisite understanding of all things?

The beautiful boy with the auburn hair who was Amadeo gazed at me calmly as Riccardo spoke. And once again he said in the soft Russian tongue: Master, which the other boys did not hear.

Poetry belongs to everyone.

It was as if that distant bed were a stage and on the linen pillows of the little stage lay that boy, his black hair parted in the middle and curling about his ears, so that he looked now in his dream, fevered state like one of those lithe androgynous creatures of a Botticelli painting; and beside him, nestled against him, her tiny white hand stark against his flesh lay Claudia, her face buried in his neck.

He came towards Maharet, staring intently at her, at her smooth face which now bore no trace whatever of human life, the florid human eyes seemingly set within a sculpture.

Her hair was pulled back to a bun on the back of her head. She was so beautiful she didn't need any makeup, but she had put some dark-violet eye shadow on her eyelashes and a dark color, like violet, too, I think on her lips. I knew that dark violet meant trouble.

No matter how long we exist, we have our memories—points in time which time itself cannot erase. Suffering may distort my backward glances, but even to suffering, some memories will yield nothing of their beauty or their splendor. Rather they remain as hard as gems.

It struck me how different were his green eyes from hers. His eyes were darker. There was no distinct circle of blackness around the irises and, indeed, the pupils did not stand out so clearly. Nevertheless they were beautiful eyes.

His face flushed for an instant. It lost the preternatural whiteness and he seemed a young man of twenty-four-with sharply defined and beautiful features and gaunt well-modeled cheeks.

Things were happening too fast. My earlier judgments were shaken, and the beauty of Amadeo grew with each passing night.

What had Jesse said? She is made of alabaster. And alabaster is a stone through which light can pass.