#ros

Rosa que al prado, encarnada, te ostentas presuntuosa de grana y carmín bañada: campa lozana y gustosa; pero no, que siendo hermosa tambien serás desdichada. ↗

— Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz

#roses #unhappiness #beauty

Now yes, yes, creation sometimes screams a confusing message—fear, pain, grief. Fire burns, rivers flood, winds go hurricane, the earth shudders so hard it levels cities. But you must remember—this was not so in Eden. Mankind fell, surrendering this earth to the evil one. St. Paul says that creation groans for the day of its restoration (see Rom. 8:18–22), making it clear that everything is not as it was meant to be. People come to terrible conclusions when they assume this world is exactly as God intended. (An assumption that has wrought havoc in the sciences.) The earth is broken. Which only makes the beauty that does flow so generously that much more astounding. And reassuring. ↗

— John Eldredge

#fallen-world #generosity #sin #beauty

It seems strange that my life should end in such a terrible place, but for three years I had roses, and apologized to no one. ↗

— Alan Moore

#roses #life

The water that flows through the canals is both beautiful and deadly. Its tranquil surface belies that toxins beneath-unpleasant to touch, deadly to imbibe. ↗

— Fiona Paul

#beauty

With genius, as with beauty -- all, well almost all, is forgiven. ↗

— Susan Sontag

#exemptions #forgiveness #generosity #genius #leniency

I gripped against her like she was metal and I was all full of lightning, charged up and jagged and of that moment alone. ↗

— Chris Howard

#prose #rootless #beauty

And I howled at that swarm and the crops and the sky, and the stars should have quit because there weren't no reason to be shining. ↗

— Chris Howard

#prose #beauty

I began to turn my body, but he held me and laid me back onto the bed, insistently, kissing my breasts but not lingering, kissing a line down my stomach and lower. “You want me to prove to you that I want you more than I’ve ever wanted anything in my life, Roses. Is that true, aye? Because I just can’t take this anymore.” I gasped as he licked into my sensitive flesh, wetting me with his soft strokes, speaking soft words against my skin. “If you insist on doubting me, Roses, if you absolutely insist on breaking down every defense that I have with your tears and your plush, wet, ripe beauty, then that’s what I’ll have to do, lass. Is that what you want from me? Proof?” I could only sigh a soft response, already falling, burning, wanting too much. ↗

— Juliette Miller

#juliette-miller #roses #wilkie #beauty

You do not seem to realize that beauty is a liability rather than an asset - that in view of the fact that spirit creates form we are justified in supposing that you must have brains. For you, a symbol of the unit, stiff and sharp, conscious of surpassing by dint of native superiority and liking for everything self-dependent, anything an ambitious civilization might produce: for you, unaided, to attempt through sheer reserve, to confuse presumptions resulting from observation, is idle. You cannot make us think you a delightful happen-so. But rose, if you are brilliant, it is not because your petals are the without-which-nothing of pre-eminence. Would you not, minus thorns, be a what-is-this, a mere perculiarity? They are not proof against a worm, the elements, or mildew; but what about the predatory hand? What is brilliance without co-ordination? Guarding the infinitesimal pieces of your mind, compelling audience to the remark that it is better to be forgotten than to be re- membered too violently, your thorns are the best part of you. ↗

— Marianne Moore

#poem #roses-only #beauty

The moon hung heavy over the lake like an overripe orange, trickling its golden stream of light across inky depths. ↗

— Julie Lessman

#descriptive-prose #beauty