Quotes About Beauty

I don't eat bread.' Is she pouting? It's hard to tell. She's had a lot of chemicals injected into her face.

I knew from Brianna that being beautiful wasn't all great. Brianna had changed in middle school. One day we were both seventh graders and the next, she was a supermodel who had a seventh grader for a best friend.

It is good for women to look like little girls now, to have no hair between their legs. The women out in the waiting room, the ones who will not look at me, are here for that too, to be made into smooth, hairless creatures. They will have their skin polished, smoothed, so everyone can pretend they are young again. Everyone wants the young.

I will find him one, a beautiful little stupid girl, as dumb as the one at 623 Daisy Lane used to be and show her to him. He will want her, with her little limbs and happy face and solid, live flesh. She will become the new Alice and he will want her so much he will forget all about me. Kill me to teach her a lesson, probably, and then move on. Yes, that is what will happen. What must happen.

Our bodies are to be celebrated, despite our individual limitations.

Nature, perpetual whore, distracts with the immediate.

Yesterday from my office window I saw a crippled girl negotiating her way across the street, her shoulders squarely braced. At each jerky movement her hair flew back like an annunciatory angel, and I saw she was the only dancer on the street.

The temperament of a dandelion or cosmic preservation. Where does wonder begin?

Today, without its exotic carapace, the exterior is a reddish brick within which the arches and buttresses that made such a feat of engineering possible are clearly visible. They have their own beauty; through such structural expertise the Pantheon has been in constant use for 1,875 years.

The country is crazy with barrenness, and the sea mocks it with its terrible beauty.

Back and forth she went each morning by the river, spring arriving once again; foolish, foolish spring, breaking open its tiny buds, and what she couldn't stand was how—for many years, really—she had been made happy by such a thing. She had not thought she would ever become immune to the beauty of the physical world, but there you were. The river sparkled with the sun that rose, enough that she needed her sunglasses.

Only a few leaves of deep red remain on the otherwise bare limbs of the maples; the oak leaves are russet and wrinkled; briefly through the trees is the glimpse of the bay, flat and steel-gray today with the overcast November sky.

But here was the world, screeching its beauty at her day after day, and she felt grateful for it.

But what Tyler longed for was to have The Feeling arrive; when every flicker of light that touched the dipping branches of a weeping willow, every breath of breeze that bent the grass towards the row of apple trees, every shower of yellow ginko leaves dropping to the ground with such direct and tender sweetness, would fill the minister with profound and irreducible knowledge that God was right there.

the land closest to the setting sun would get dark, almost black against the orange line of horizon, but if you turn around, the land is still available to the eye with such softness, the few trees, the quiet fields of cover crops already turned, and the sky lingering, lingering then finally dark. As though the soul can be quiet for those moments. All life amazes me.

I have never seen anything as beautiful as those girls. These women. My daughters!

The leaves were half-gone now. The Norway maples still hung on to their yellow, but most of the orangey-red of the sugar maples had found their way to the ground, leaving behind the stark branches that seemed to hang like stuck-out arms and tiny fingers, skeletal and bleak.

A little bit she was aware of the beauty she walked by, the sunlight sparkling off the quiet lake, the bare trees - it was beautiful, she was not unaware of this, but it was futile, and far away. Mostly she looked down at the muddy roots in front of her; the path, uneven with its little use, required concentration to maneuver. Perhaps it was the concentration that allowed her into the day.

Driving, Lambright thought the moon looked like a fingerprint of chalk.

I have sometimes been sad that Tennessee Williams wrote that line for Blanche DuBois, "I have always depended on the kindness of strangers." Many of us have been saved many times by the kindness of strangers, but after a while it sounds trite, like a bumper sticker. And that's what makes me sad, that a beautiful and true line comes to be used so often that it takes on the superficial sound of a bumper sticker.

Great buildings that move the spirit have always been rare. In every case they are unique, poetic, products of the heart.

Vitality is radiated from exceptional art and architecture.

Only when inspired to go beyond consciousness by some extraordinary insight does beauty manifest unexpectedly.

I don't know when we'll see each other again or what the world will be like when we do. We may both have seen many horrible things. But I will think of you every time I need to be reminded that there is beauty and goodness in the world.