I'm longing for love and the logical But he's only happy hysterical I'm searching for some kind of miracle Waited so long So long
Whereas the beautiful is limited, the sublime is limitless, so that the mind in the presence of the sublime, attempting to imagine what it cannot, has pain in the failure but pleasure in contemplating the immensity of the attempt
A respectable appearance is sufficient to make people more interested in your soul
Logos and branding are so important. In a big part of the world, people cannot read French or English--but are great in remembering signs
Symbols can be so beautiful, sometimes.
I recall certain moments, let us call them icebergs in paradise, when after having had my fill of her
People took such awful chances with chemicals and their bodies because they wanted the quality of their lives to improve. They lived in ugly places where there were only ugly things to do. They didn't own doodley-squat, so they couldn't improve their surroundings. so they did their best to make their insides beautiful instead.
Fashion does not have to prove that it is serious. It is the proof that intelligent frivolity can be something creative and positive
Oh look an ATM! Ok here we go! I lost all my money, now what do I do? Get a gun! Rob a casino! Good idea! Look at all the lights! This is beautiful.
Evening of a hot day started the little wind to moving among the leaves. The shade climbed up the hills toward the top. On the sand banks the rabbits sat as quietly as little gray, sculptured stones.
I have always adored beautiful young men. Just because I grow older, my taste doesn't change. So if I can still have them, why not?
You cannot fake chic but you can be chic and fake fur
I said nothing for a time, just ran my fingertips along the edge of the human-shaped emptiness that had been left inside me.
Everytime you smile at someone, it is an action of love, a gift to that person, a beautiful thing.
Everybody has a somebody.
behind every beautiful thing, there's some kind of pain.
...but I preferred reading the American landscape as we went along. Every bump, rise, and stretch in it mystified my longing.
Haven't you ever heard that modesty is an attractive trait?
I often wish I'd got on better with your father,' he said. But he never liked anyone who--our friends,' said Clarissa; and could have bitten her tongue for thus reminding Peter that he had wanted to marry her. Of course I did, thought Peter; it almost broke my heart too, he thought; and was overcome with his own grief, which rose like a moon looked at from a terrace, ghastly beautiful with light from the sunken day. I was more unhappy than I've ever been since, he thought. And as if in truth he were sitting there on the terrace he edged a little towards Clarissa; put his hand out; raised it; let it fall. There above them it hung, that moon. She too seemed to be sitting with him on the terrace, in the moonlight.
Like the teens I worked with, I understood the need for miracles--they kept reality from paralyzing you
I follow Plato only with my mind Pure beauty strikes me as a little thin A little cold, however beautiful. I am in love with what is mixed and impure Doubtful, dark and hard to disencumber I want beauty I must dig for, search for. Pure beauty is beginning and not end Begin with the sun and drop from sun to cloud From cloud to tree, and from tree to earth itself And deeper yet to the earth dark root. I am in love with what resists my loving With what I have to labor to make live.
Everybody has a somebody
Shimamoto was in charge of the records. She'd take one from its jacket, place it carefully on the turntable without touching the grooves with her fingers, and, after making sure to brush the cartridge free of any dust with a tiny brush, lower the needle ever so gently onto the record. When the record was finished, she'd spray it and wipe it with a felt cloth. Finally she'd return the record to its jacket and its proper place on the shelf. Her father had taught her this procedure, and she followed his instructions with a terribly serious look on her face, her eyes narrowed, her breath held in check. Meanwhile, I was on the sofa, watching her every move. Only when the record was safely back on the shelf did she turn to me and give a little smile. And every time, this thought hit me: It wasn't a record she was handling. It was a fragile soul inside a glass bottle.
When we feel, a kind of lyric is sung in our heart. When we think, a kind of music is played in our mind. In harmony, both create a beautiful symphony of life.
I will tell you what Jeanne was like. She was like a piano in a country where everyone has had their hands cut off.
Bina, thank you. Bina, listen, this guy. His name wasn't Lasker. This guy-' She puts a hand to his mouth. She has not touched him in three years. It probably would be too much to say that he feels the darkness lift at the touch of her fingertips against his lips. But it shivers, and light bleeds in among the cracks.
His plate was full but his fists sat motionless like two dark quartz stones on either side of it.
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