Quotes About Eyes

The most beautiful experience we can have is the mysterious. It is the fundamental emotion which stands at the cradle of true art and true science. Whoever does not know it and can no longer wonder, no longer marvel, is as good as dead, and his eyes are dimmed. —ALBERT EINSTEIN

Her face is a map of remembered trouble and absorbed guilt, The green eyes look broken, as if their glass has shattered. A motorway pile-up of wrecked mascara. Lashes jeweled with tears.

My wife's eyes sought mine for the old recognition, but found there a difference that would have been less nightmarish had it been less slight.

The look in his eyes although it was only hatred was beautiful, like a flower upheld on a bent, spindling, breaking stem.

Vieni, mio bel gatto, sul mio cuore innamorato; trattieni le unghie della zampa, e lasciami sprofondare nei tuoi occhi striati di metallo e d'agata" - Charles Baudelaire

I could see the longing in your eyes.

Wonder shows in the light of our eyes. Without it, they become dull and old.

His eyes were curiously deep, and a warm, gray color. His mouth was thin-lipped, but a little wide and altogether friendly. His light, straight brown hair was already receding at the temples. He wore it clipped short, and he would be nearly bald before his thirties were out, but since he was not the sort of man to whom good looks are necessary, this would make little difference.

Beauty… when you look into a woman's eyes and see what is in her heart.

Fear has big eyes.

...Lost in your heart, lost in your eyes Lost every day, no map to follow Entire days, weeks, a blur Flickers of light, in the darkness, Only to be enveloped in shadows once more...

Hope is much like a cat in the Dark — you only know it's there by the reflection of its eyes — which means there is Light nearby.

He looked at her and saw her eyes luminous with pity. And then he remembered that he loved her and was lost in amazement at his fortune that permitted him to love her and to take her on his arm to a lecture.

Rise from the mud, let the sunshine clense your eyes, and thrust your shoulders into the stars!

Mrs. Morse did not require a mother's intuition to read the advertisement in Ruth's face when she returned home. The flush that would not leave the cheeks told the simple story, and more eloquently did the eyes, large and bright, reflecting an unmistakable inward glory.

The world today is made, it is powered by science; and for any man to abdicate an interest in science is to walk with open eyes towards slavery.

Wide grey eyes and a mop of red-gold curls, a charming sprinkle of freckles across the bridge of her nose—there is a limit, within the canons, of the number allowable for beauty.

But there was something there in her eyes, something she recognized, as if it were an old friend to be welcomed. It was a certain resolve, a knowledge that the only way she could fight her way out of the abyss was to prove something to herself—that she could be brave, that she could survive and be strong.

What interests me about the eyes is that they are part of the body that doesn't age. In other words, if one looks for ones childhood across all the signs of aging in the body, the deterioration of musculature, the whitening of the hair, changes in height and weight, one can find one's childhood in the look of the eyes.

Deconstruction never had meaning or interest, at least in my eyes, than as a radicalization, that is to say, also within the tradition of a certain Marxism, in a certain spirit of Marxism

his eyes, behind his glasses, were like the eyes of a dying a man who looks everywhere for healing.

The baby was restless, and I was scared. It was almost time. I was so tired, I almost wanted to die. For a long time, because he was in solitary, I had not been able to see Fonny. I had seen him on this day. He was so skinny; he was so bruised: I almost cried out. To whom, where? I saw this question in Fonny's enormous, slanted black eyes–– eyes that burned, now, like the eyes of a prophet. Yet, when he grinned, I saw, all over again, my lover, as though for the first time.

Confession Who knows more of Wanda, the wan, than I do? And who knows more of Terry, the torn, than I do? And who knows more than I do of Ziggy, the Zap, fleeing the rap, using his eyes and teeth to spring the trap, than I do!      Or did. Good Lord, forbid that morning's acre, held in the palm

the look in his eyes was so bottomlessly bitter it was almost benevolent.