Beauty is no quality in things themselves: It exists merely in the mind which contemplates them; and each mind perceives a different beauty.
I have learned more and more to enjoy my body when I have a few extra pounds on, just being more voluptuous.
The human condition is imperfection. And that's how it's supposed to be.
Beauty is excrescence, superabundance, random ebulience, and sheer delightful waste to be enjoyed in its own right.
'Tis not a lip, or eye, we beauty call, But the joint force and full result of all.
The most beautiful object in the world, it will be allowed, is a beautiful woman.
The beauty of a lovely woman is like music.
Beauty, n: the power by which a woman charms a lover and terrifies a husband.
Whatever is beautiful is also profitable.
That's always seemed so ridiculous to me, that people want to be around someone because they're pretty. It's like picking your breakfeast cereals based on color instead of taste.
Though beauty gives you a weird sense of entitlement, it's rather frightening and threatening to have others ascribe such importance to something you know you're just renting for a while.
There are two kinds of beauty; there is a beauty which God gives at birth, and which withers as a flower. And there is a beauty which God grants when by His grace men are born again. That kind of beauty never vanishes but blooms eternally.
Beauty is everlasting And dust is for a time.
You may not, cannot, appropriate beauty. It is the wealth of the eye, and a cat may gaze upon a king.
Beauty is a possession not our own.
What's female beauty, but an air divine, thro' which the mind's all gentle graces shine? They, like the sun, irradiate all between; the body charms because the soul is seen.
I'm pretty comfortable with my body. I'm imperfect. The imperfections are there. People are going to see them, but I take the view you only live once.
I don't think of all the misery but of the beauty that still remains.
One day I had to sit down with myself and decide that I loved myself no matter what my body looked like and what other people thought about my body. I got tired of hating myself.
Lover's words: “How beautiful you are, now that you love me.”
It's not all bad. Heightened self-consciousness, apartness, an inability to join in, physical shame and self-loathing—they are not all bad. Those devils have been my angels. Without them I would never have disappeared into language, literature, the mind, laughter and all the mad intensities that made and unmade me.
Sexiness wears thin after a while and beauty fades, but to be married to a man who makes you laugh every day, ah, now that's a real treat.
Beauty of whatever kind, in its supreme development, invariably excites the sensitive soul to tears.
What humbugs we are, who pretend to live for beauty, and never see the dawn!
The pain passes, but the beauty remains.
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