Quotes About Beauty

He might have been made by God to he painted by Andrea del Santo, so delicately perfect did be seen.

so it seemed that if all the world outside her were to sink into darkness, what was fine, what was beautiful, what was essential might there still come to its finest flower.

She was tall, and had kept her dark brown hair loose and long all her life, save for a leather barette such as she wore now, which held only her forelocks beneath her head to flow down her back. She wore gold hoops danging from her small earlobes, and her soft white summer clothes had a gypsy flare to them, perhaps because of the red scarf tied around the waist of her full cotton skirt.

I looked up, and it seemed to me that he was a vision of male perfection, dressed in a snow white silk shirt and a finely cut black velvet jacket, his curly black hair very properly and beautifully combed back over his ears and curling above his collar in the most lively and fetching style. I loved looking at him, rather as I loved looking at Merrick.

We must have the courage to embrace the beauty of science in the name of the Lord.

I allowed myself to forget how totally I had fallen in love with Lestat's iridescent eyes, that I'd sold my soul for a many-colored and luminescent thing, thinking that a highly reflective surface conveyed the power to walk on water.

The fabled beauty of Lestat seemed potent as a drug. And the crowning light of the chandelier was merciless or splendid depending on one's point of view.

What a simple trusting being she was, with her eyes and mouth happily painted, and cheeks rouged, her breasts thrust forward and held in place by tight straps beneath her black silk dress.

They adjust, I believe that's the word. They adjust and they reach for the stars in their own way. I tell you it's wondrous to me. They make me think of the wildflowers that grow in the cracks of the pavements, just pushing up into the sun, no matter how many feet crush them down

Suffering may distort my backward glances, but even to suffering, but even to suffering, some memories will yield nothing of their beauty or splendor. Rather they remain hard as gems.

Se anche non restasse più una sola opera d'arte al mondo... e ce ne sono migliaia... se non ci fosse più una sola bellezza naturale... se il mondo si riducesse a una sola cella vuota e una sola fragile candela, non posso fare a meno di vederti là a studiare quella candela, assorto nel tremolio della sua luce, nel cambiamento dei suoi colori.»

Where was he now, my beauteous pupil? I listened but I heard nothing.

In a flash I saw the boy in the man's eyes. Only it could not be true. I could not have such luck. For the boy had beauty as bountiful as Bianca's. I did not count upon it.

Tiny pinpoints of light, pulsing, and connected to the white figure, and almost beautiful, the sight of it, except it was so sad. Oh, poor souls of all the Dead guys locked in indestructible matter unable to grow old or die.

Oh, my beautiful Marius. Tell me how to remedy this and I will.

I was thinking how very attractive he was, I couldn't stop myself, with his yellow hair so thick and long, turning so gracefully at the collar of his coat, and his large probing violet eyes. There are very few creatures on earth who have true violet eyes. The slight difference between his eyes meant nothing. His sun-browned skin was flawless. What he saw in me with his questioning gaze, I couldn't know.

Her soft gray hair was curled naturally around her face, and her small eyes were full of an exuberant spirit as she studied the cameos at hand.

His face was all the more bright from the blood he'd drunk. Indeed the color was even now, and radiant overall, and his hair seemed all the fairer against his blushing skin. A tiny spider's web of veins lived within each of his eyes, not detracting one jot from their awesome lustrous beauty.

I had no fear of her recognizing anything abnormal in Lestat, what with his tanned skin, except perhaps his excessive beauty.

beauty meant nothing because it came from the despair inside him, and it had nothing to do with the despair finally, because the despair wasn't beautiful, and beauty then was a horrid irony?

What did it show of me? A long oval face, with features that were too delicate-a nose too narrow, eyes round with round eyebrows and a full cupid's bow mouth that made me look as if I were a twelve-year-old girl. No huge eyes, no high cheekbones, no rugged jaw. Just very pretty, yes, too pretty, which is why I'd scowled for most of the photographs taken for the portrait; but the artist hadn't saved that scowl into the face.

Come here so I can see you. Ah, but you are handsome. Come into the light.

She was a vision, there was no doubt of it, her face warm and pretty for all its years. It wasn't gaunt so much as naturally angular, and her thinning lips were nearly brightened with rose lipstick, and her eyes, in spite of the fine wrinkles around them, were still vividly blue. The diamonds and pearls on her breast were stunning, and she wore several rich diamond rings on her long hands.

How can I describe him? His beauty did not depend on his facial expression. It was tempered already on his face. It was all wrought up with his fine bones, serene mouth, and his auburn curls.