From barren brown stems to glistening leaf-buds; from the leaf-buds to snowy virginity of bloom…It was like a flute song forgotten in another existence and remembered again. What? How? Why? This singing she heard that had nothing to do with her ears. The rose of the world was breathing out smell. It followed her through all her waking moments and caressed her in her sleep.
Beauty is like the storm. Beauty has its natural motions. A calmness of spirit signals its arrival. Its departure is marked by misery.
What in heaven’s name was the real essence of this beauty? Was it the precision of nature with its physical laws, or was it nature’s mercilessness, ceaselessly resisting man’s understanding?
One marvel of a day he had walked so far that when he returned the moon was high and full and all the world was purple shadow and silver.
On any other day she would have stood barefoot on the wet grass listening to the mockingbirds’ early service; she would have pondered over the meaninglessness of silent, austere beauty renewing itself with every sunrise and going ungazed at by half the world. She would have walked beneath yellow-ringed pines rising to a brilliant eastern sky, and her senses would have succumbed to the joy of the morning.
It was waiting to receive her, but she neither looked nor listened.
Beautiful smiles by beautiful ladies!
I realized, when I saw the forest burning, how fascinating the firelight is. It’s beautiful, and people stare at it, don’t they? It destroys and kills people, but humans love it. Is it because they crave their own destruction, Sam? I want to understand your kind. I am going out into the wider world, and I must learn.
What common people call beauty is essentially nature. The moment nature abandons you, your beauty is lost forever.
Everything was glowing and shining, and she herself was flying inside that glow. She could do anything. Be anything.
Explore the wonders of different shades of colours. It is purely lovely.