Quotes About Eyes

Something forever watchful has taken up residence in his eyes.

Max lifted his head, with great sorrow and great astonishment. 'There were stars,' He said. 'They burned my eyes.' ...from a Himmel street window, he wrote, the stars set fire to my eyes.

Papa was a man with silver eyes, not dead ones. Papa was an accordion! But his bellows were all empty. Nothing went in and nothing came out.

Liesel observed the strangeness of her foster father's eyes. They were made of kindness, and silver.

Fear is shiny. Ruthless in the eyes.

The pages and the words are my world, spread out before your eyes and for your hand to touch. Vaguely, I can see you face looking down into me, as I look back. Do you see my eyes?

My own eyes try to sleep, but they don't. They stay wide awake as time snarls forward and silence drops down, like measured thought.

When we move apart, she looks at me again, till a small tear lifts itself up in her eye. It trips out to find a wrinkle and follows it down.

But when they laugh, you can see the world in their eyes.

He was skinny with soft hair, and his thick, murky eyes watched as the stranger played one more song in the heavy room. From face to face, he looked on as the man played and the woman wept. The different notes handled her eyes. Such sadness.

The stars set fire to my eyes.

His eyes were cold and brown — like coffee stains…

Her hair was a close enough brand of German blond, but she had dangerous eyes. Dark brown.

despite the violent architecture of his skull—the endless jawline, stretching for miles; the pop-up cheek-bones; and the pothole eyes.

Maxi Taxi, you've got him now, you've got him, Jew boy, you've got him, you've got him!" A small kid with soft tufts of hair, a beaten nose, and swampy eyes, Max was a good head shorter

His eyes were the color of agony...

Mama's eyes were like pale blue cutouts, pasted to her face.

Byly tam hvÄ›zdy. Pálily mÄ› z nich o?i.

From a Himmel Street window, he wrote, the star set fire to my eyes.

Whence did the wond'rous mystic art arise, / Of painting SPEECH, and speaking to the eyes? / That we by tracing magic lines are taught, / How to embody, and to colour THOUGHT?

Once we have surrendered our senses and nervous systems to the private manipulation of those who would try to benefit from taking a lease on our eyes and ears and nerves, we don't really have any rights left.

when the sky is as grey as this - impeccably grey, a denial, really of the very concept of colour - and the stooped millions lift their heads, it's hard to tell the air from the impurities in our human eyes, as if the sinking climbing paisley curlicues of grit were part of the element itself, rain, spores, tears, film, dirt. Perhaps, at such moments, the sky is no more then the sum of the dirt that lives in our human eyes.

Her body is probably naked by now but there is nothing as naked as human eyes: they haven't even got skin over them.

Yolanda stood with her head cocked and her dark eyes gleaming, like a crow at the fence line.