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Beautiful Writing Quotes

Browse 144 quotes about Beautiful Writing.

Beautiful Writing Quotes

“Everything in life is your interpretation of things. People, places, and things. It’s a hard thing to do in this day and age, but try to assume positive intent with people and of your world. If we are going to make this world look more beautiful, feel more beautiful and be more beautiful, then we must treat it beautiful. This way starts with ourselves and continues with others. And the only way to be beautiful, to see beautiful, and to feel truly beautiful — is to love and be loving.”

“She thought of the little disks hidden in her closet and under her bed and at the back of her drawers. They were her secret. The disks she made let her hold those times and remember them forever. Like putty her father had used to fill the nick in the cupboard, her disks dilled the empty space that was left behind wen a moment was over. Her mother and father could never find them.”

“Rome and New York were impressive, but they knew they were. They had the beauty of a vain woman who had squeezed herself into her favourite dress after hours of careful self worship. There was a raw, feral beauty about this landscape that was totally unselfconscious but no less real...There was no pomp or vainty here; this was an innocent, natural beauty, the best kind, like a woman first thing in the morning, lit up by the sun streaming through a window, who doesn't quite believe it when you tell her how beautiful she is.”

“Wherever you travel to, appreciate the culture and beauty of the place.”

“Feelings that would not have disgraced a leader who, now that the snow has begun to fall and the mountain-top is covered in mist, knows that he must lay himself down and die before morning comes, stole upon him, paling the colour of his eyes, giving him, even in the two minutes of his turn on the terrace, the bleached look of withered old age. Yet he would not die lying down; he would find some crag of rock, and there, his eyes fixed on the storm, trying to the end to pierce the darkness, he would die standing. He would never reach R.”

“Eustacia Vye was the raw material of a divinity. On Olympus she would have done well with a little preparation. She had the passions and instincts which make a model goddess, that is, those which make not quite a model woman. Had it been possible for the earth and mankind to be entirely in her grasp for a while, had she handled the distaff, the spindle, and the shears at her own free will, few in the world would have noticed the change in government. . . .”

“Psipsina emerged from inside the tunic, and jumped up on the table in order to curl up inside the cap, which had been her favourite resting place ever since she discovered the joys of contortionism; she filled it and overflowed from it in such a tangle and jumble of whiskers, ears, tail and paws that it was impossible to tell which part of her was which, and she slept in it because it reminded her of gifts of salami and chicken skins.”

“Algunas de las mejores cosas de la vida no están hechas para durar siempre. Por eso las valoramos tanto cuando suceden. Como una caja lena de tu chocolate favorito. O las estrellas fugaces. No nos negamos a comer ese dulce porque vaya a acabase una vez que lo hagamos, ni dejamos de mirar las estrellas cuando vemos que una cruza el cielo disparada. Disfrutamos del momento porque sabemos que vivirlo merece la pena.”

“We can only live life when we understand life.”

“Christine had gone into the city archives, found them in an old City of Edmonton telephone book. Her family was in a book. Her family and herself were defined by a street, an avenue, and a phone number. This line of type will rearrange itself into a story of ghosts in that place. A story of her ghost. Christine thought of herself as a child, with no idea of the world but all the ideas of the world. Maybe this was her dream self. She wasn't sure anymore.”

“The lighthouse was called The Longing. Pitched amidst tessellations of rock black as coke, thrashed for over a hundred years by disconsolate squalls, it needled upwards, spine-straight, a white bolt locking earth, sky, and ocean together. It was lovely in its decrepitude, feathery paint gnawed off by north winds and rust-blazed window frames signatures of use and purpose. -The Lighthouse Witches, C.J. Cooke”