Quotes About Elegance

No one can look at you in this dress, in all that fire and gold, and start talking about anachronisms. If I were him, I would have said, 'You are the most beautiful creature I have ever seen walking this earth.

I don't care if he's not the emotional type or the complimentary type or what. No one can look at you in this dress, in all that fire and gold, and start talking about anachronisms. If I were him, I would have said, 'You are the most beautiful creature I have ever seen walking this earth.

You are the most beautiful creature I have ever seen walking this earth.

They're beautiful. You're beautiful.

EXEUNT THE VIOLS Listen: even the ocean mourns the passage of voices so pure and penetrant, that insect hum. Who discovered usefulness? Who forgot how to sing, simply? (Magnificence spoke up briefly, followed by the race boat's break-neck dazzle.)…their last chord a breath drawn deep in a garden maze, there near the statue smiling under the stars.

Butterflies are not insects,' Captain John Sterling said soberly. 'They are self-propelled flowers.

Girls are simply wonderful. Just to stand on a corner and watch them going past is delightful. They don't walk. At least not what we do when we walk. I don't know how to describe it, but it's much more complex and utterly delightful. They don't move just their feet; everything moves and in different directions . . . and all of it graceful.

Cats, like butterflies, need no excuse.

They were all three amazingly beautiful; they were also amazingly good secretaries. In Harshaw's opinion the principle of least action required that utility and beauty be combined.

An accident of the formalism is something that is mathematically useful, even necessary perhaps to the elegance of the equations, but has no measurable consequence in the experimental world.

Even in her cap and gown Susan looked like a sunrise, extravagant and full of promise. Wherever she went things seemed, as they always did, to organize around her.

Everything was elegant and cool, including Frederics, who was slicker than the path to hell.

Everyone froze. In real time the whole sequence had probably taken ten seconds. In the slow motion of crisis time it had unreeled in ponderous elegance, and the crystalline immobility that followed was intensified by the lingering smell of gunfire, like an olfactory echo of the big bang.

Susan came down the hall in a white dress that fit her well. She looked like she was receiving an Academy Award for stunningness. I

To be looked at by Susan, naked, with those eyes, over a glass of pink champagne, was all I knew on earth, and all I had to know.

He had on a red sleeveless jumpsuit, black shirt with bell sleeves, high-heeled black patent leather boots with black laces. A full-length black leather trench coat hung open.

O'Mara sat back down and crossed his legs effortlessly. His freshly creased slacks were the color of butterscotch. His wing-tipped loafers were burgundy. He wore no socks. He had on a starched white shirt, open at the throat, and a blue blazer with brass buttons. My clothes must never fit that well, I thought. I'd be overwhelmed with sexual opportunities, and never get any work done. I promised myself to be careful.

She was sleek and stylish, every hair in place, slim and elegant. When preparing meals in the kitchen or baking a cake, she never appeared disheveled, never a dab of flour on her face. Even her aprons were stylish, not merely to protect her from spills or splashes. They matched whatever she was wearing.

Video cams set up on a little platform at the rear of a place that might be called a grand ballroom if you thought small.

Most of the homes were immaculate Spanish or Mediterranean villas, reminiscent of an earlier time and rich with genteel elegance. More Ross Macdonald than Raymond Chandler.

A short, slight gentleman was standing in the living room. He had wavy marcelled hair and he was wearing a brown summer-weight suit that had probably been new twenty years ago. His hair was more gray than not, and his skin was the color of fine cocoa parchment. He was holding a small bouquet of zinnias. I made him for his late sixties, but I could've been off five years either way.

He looked up. His mouth stayed where it was and noise quit coming out of it. Yes, Asil thought, the other's awe soothing the feathers that had been ruffled by the wait, I am beautiful.

Go slowly, my lovely moon, go slowly.

She was the trembler of knees, the spiller of teacups.