#beautiful

The cream and hot butter mingled and overflowed separating each glucose bead of caviar from its fellows, capping it in white and gold. ↗

— Evelyn Waugh

#beauty

We stand dead still and we listen to the night. The city drones. An owl hoots and a cat howls and a dog barks and a siren wails. We let the stars shine into us. ↗

— David Almond

#beauty

Ariya was tall and fine-boned, with large doe-eyes framed by long lashes. She moved about the one-story house with a self-possessed grace in her purple dress. We thought she would make a good model. She could sell anything but perfume, because she always had a smell: parsley, cilantro, chicken, goat, sour sop, shop cheese. ↗

— Jenelle Jack Pierre

#beautiful-people #beauty

She laughed. I closed my eyes. It sounded damn mournful, that laugh of hers echoing off the square. ↗

— Esi Edugyan

#beauty

At this the Wart's eyes grew rounder and rounder, until they were about as big as the owl's who was sitting on his shoulder, and his face got redder and redder, and a breath seemed to gather itself beneath his heart. ↗

— T. H. White

#descriptive #beauty

[T]welve year old Libby O'Shea coasted on a homemade swing, toes touching a blinding-blue heaven dolloped with clouds. ↗

— Julie Lessman

#descriptive-prose #beauty

Death is a force, not a man in a horse ↗

— Dry the River

#music #beauty

He saw her right after the seventh-period bell rang. She seemed dressed for the sole purpose of blending in with the lockers, but she stood out, anyway. It didn’t matter that her wide blue eyes were narrowed or that her pretty mouth was twisted into a near snarl — she was blatantly beautiful. It was kind of sick the way Ed was preoccupied with beautiful girls these days. He felt a little sorry for her. (He was also preoccupied with finding ways of feeling sorry for people.) She was new and trying hard not to look it. She was confused and trying to look tough. It was endearing is what it was. ↗

— Francine Pascal

#blending-in #endearing #lockers #pity #school

It was the hour in which objects lose the consistency of shadow that accompanies them during the night and gradually reacquire colors, but seem to cross meanwhile an uncertain limbo, faintly touched, just breathed on by light; the hour in which one is least certain of the world's existence. ↗

— Italo Calvino

#light #morning #beauty

Beautiful places are almost alive! When you visit them, you can feel their breaths! ↗

— Mehmet Murat ildan

#beauty