Ageless Beauty Quotes

I don't mind being burdened with being glamorous and sexual. Beauty and femininity are ageless and can't be contrived, and glamour, although the manufacturers won't like this, cannot be manufactured. Not real glamour; it's based on femininity.

Fire burns blue and hot. Its fair light blinds me not. Smell of smoke is satisfying, tastes nourishing to my tongue. I think fire ageless, never old, and yet no longer young. Morning coals are cool: daylight leaves me blind. I love the fire most because of what it leaves behind.

The forest did not scare her; rather, she wanted to be like it: ageless and impervious, cruel and beautiful. Death could not touch

You go in through double swing doors. Inside the double doors there is a combination PBX and information desk at which sits one of those ageless women you see around municipal offices everywhere in the world. They were never young and will never be old. They have no beauty, no charm, no style. They don't have to please anybody. They are safe. They are civil without ever quite being polite and intelligent and knowledgeable without any real interest in anything. They are what human beings turn into when they trade life for existence and ambition for security.

Her eyes were like the first morning of the world, so ageless

Heart's wave could not curl and break beautifully into the foam of spirit, unless the ageless silent rock of destiny stood in its path.

Still the music, the deep slow melody, the high and broken counterpoint, as if the mountains themselves had become the score, as if the glories of hidden caves and secret peaks had wrapped around the ageless majesty of the ocean and turned into the music of all men's lives, played out by a woman's fingers, without pause or mercy, reaching in, twisting, laying us bare.

What if I tell you what the rock and darkness and sea beyond whispered to me, Lord of Bloodshed? How they shuddered in fear, on that island across the sea. How they trembled when she emerged. She took something - something precious. She ripped it out with her teeth. What did you wake that day in Hybern, Prince of Bastards? What came out was not what went in. How lovely she is - new as a fawn and yet ancient as the sea. How she calls to you. A queen, as my sister once was. Terrible and proud; beautiful as a winter sunrise. Nesta. Nes-ta. How the wind moans her name. Can you hear it, too? Nesta. Nesta. Nesta. What did she do, drowning in the ageless dark? What did she take?

My love for you is immeasurable My respect for you immense You're ageless, timeless, lace and fineness You're beauty and elegance You're a rhapsody, a comedy You're a symphony and a play You're every love song ever written But honey what do you see in me? You're in my heart, you're in my soul You'll be my breath should I grow old You are my lover, you're my best friend You're in my soul

Anger is often like an inverted lotus: On the surface lie muddy, not-so-beautiful roots. Under water lie beautiful blossoms. You need to develop an amphibious eye to appreciate the full meaning of such an unusual flower.

They were ageless, they were sexless, they were neither male nor female, old or young, but the beauty of their faces, and of their bodies too, was more stirring and exciting than anything I had ever seen or known, and with a sudden longing I wanted to be one of them, to be dressed as they were dressed, to love as they must love, to laugh and worship and be silent.

My mom’s white-blond hair is perfectly coiffed, her makeup tastefully understated, her Jil Sander cashmere turtleneck expensively minimalist. She has that sort of ageless beauty that only good genes, expensive skincare products, and a world-class surgeon can buy.

Love is Caring Forgiving Soothing Healing Inspiring Fulfilling Wonderful Powerful Hopeful Delightful Peaceful Beautiful Faithful Immeasurable Dependable Adorable Valuable Corrective Constructive Considerate Compassionate Selfless Blameless Effortless Priceless Ageless Endless

When this body was just born, it was very light. As we grow, we tend to get weighed down by worries and lose our freshness and beauty. Mindful eating helps us regain this freshness, nourishing our spirits as well as our bodies. Eating with appreciation of our own bodies, we eat with more relaxation and joy.

Smile reveals the beauty of heart, which is timeless and ageless.

Life is not about perfection. It’s about progress. And progress only comes with age.

...Hell is the home of the unreal and of the seekers for happiness. It is the only refuge from heaven, which is, as I tell you, the home of the masters of reality, and from earth, which is the home of the slaves of reality. The earth is a nursery in which men and women play at being heroes and heroines, saints and sinners; but they are dragged down from their fool’s paradise by their bodies: hunger and cold and thirst, age and decay and disease, death above all, make them slaves of reality: thrice a day meals must be eaten and digested: thrice a century a new generation must be engendered: ages of faith, of romance, and of science are all driven at last to have but one prayer, “Make me a healthy animal.” But here you escape this tyranny of the flesh; for here you are not an animal at all: you are a ghost, an appearance, an illusion, a convention, deathless, ageless: in a word, bodiless. There are no social questions here, no political questions, no religious questions, best of all, perhaps, no sanitary questions. Here you call your appearance beauty, your emotions love, your sentiments heroism, your aspirations virtue, just as you did on earth; but here there are no hard facts to contradict you, no ironic contrast of your needs with your pretensions, no human comedy, nothing but a perpetual romance, a universal melodrama. As our German friend put it in his poem, “the poetically nonsensical here is good sense; and the Eternal Feminine draws us ever upward and on...

I love a man who tickles me awake with reality, and kisses me goodnight with fiction Braids my hair with simplicity to compliment my contradiction And calms the waging wars inside with a simple boyish look For he is as much a mystery as he is an open book When I am at my worst, I am beautiful by his side He draws me in yet keeps me free, the moon to my tide He relishes my quirks and antics just as much I love to keep him frantic And if I ever fall, he doesn’t catch me right away Because he knows I’ll glide And even more so, knows how much I enjoy the ride… With the strength I lack, he holds my insecurity safe in-between his fingers And if there is ever a doubt while I am out running about His steady grip lingers He drives me crazy just as much as he keeps me sane And has the wisdom to keep me wild knowing I’ll die if ever tame So when I am far, he frets not, because he knows he’s my favorite destination If ever I am down, he joins me on the ground and points out my favorite constellations He catches my sighs and lackluster replies With ageless humor and tenacity I draw blanks at his capacity And challenge his audacity But He wins because despite my stubbornness he is persistent Yet forever fails because he belongs to nonexistent

If a physical overhaul brings more freedom, creativity, and self-worth then the process will add to the person’s depth and happiness. It would be a step closer to realising one’s inestimable worth. If the overhaul doesn’t do that then it is decorating skeletons.

Nobody speaks. And the tree stands just ahead of us. I walk towards it, trancelike, and I am glad that no one is following me. It towers over me with a defiant agelessness. Branches gnarled and threatening, some thin enough to snap in two. Others that are thick enough to throw a rope over. I touch its bark. Dad said once that you can tell the story of a tree by cutting it open. I sometimes feel that way. I can't always express what I am feeling out loud. But with paper and pen, I can make sense of everything. There would be no paper without trees, even cursed ones like this.

Of all the qualities that make for a happy, healthy life and a progressive spiritual path, forgiveness is one of the most basic and important. Genuine forgiveness is not a common attitude of heart. It requires too much honesty and too little ego for the average person. It is a deep and solitary process known to the individual and God. Its ramifications are highly beneficial and, sometimes, miraculous. To have an ongoing practice of forgiveness is to extend one’s health, beauty, and agelessness; ever increasing one’s ability to face life with freshness and energy as one grows in wisdom and loses the burden of resentment. If one learns to become aware of hidden resentments and releases them then one will glow with lightness all through the years. The passing of years will have minimal effect as it is the accumulation of hurt, not the passing of years, which ages people most rapidly.

ANA. Thank you: I am going to heaven for happiness. I have had quite enough of reality on earth. DON JUAN. Then you must stay here; for hell is the home of the unreal and of the seekers for happiness. It is the only refuge from heaven, which is, as I tell you, the home of the masters of reality, and from earth, which is the home of the slaves of reality. The earth is a nursery in which men and women play at being heroes and heroines, saints and sinners; but they are dragged down from their fool’s paradise by their bodies: hunger and cold and thirst, age and decay and disease, death above all, make them slaves of reality: thrice a day meals must be eaten and digested: thrice a century anew generation must be engendered: ages of faith, of romance, and of science are all driven at last to have but one prayer “Make me a healthy animal.” But here you escape this tyranny of the flesh; for here you are not an animal at all: you are a ghost, an appearance, an illusion, a convention, deathless, ageless: in a word, bodiless. There are no social questions here, no political questions, no religious questions, best of all, perhaps, no sanitary questions. Here you call your appearance beauty, your emotions love, your sentiments heroism, your aspirations virtue, just as you did on earth; but here there are no hard facts to contradict you, no ironic contrast of your needs with your pretensions, no human comedy, nothing but a perpetual romance, a universal melodrama. As our German friend put it in his poem, “the poetically nonsensical here is good sense; and the Eternal Feminine draws us ever upward and on”—without getting us a step farther. And yet you want to leave this paradise!

I could come down for a couple of days, Daniel,but I'd like to bring someone." "Someone?" Daniel's senses sharpened. He leaned forward with the cigar smoldering in his hand. "Who might this someone be?" Recognizing the tone, Grant crunched o a corn chip. "An artist I know who's doing some painting in New England, in Winty Point at the moment. I think she'd be interested in your house." She, Daniel thought with an irrepressible grin.Just because he'd managed to comfortably establish his children didn't mean he had to give up the satisfying hobby of matchmaking. Young people needed to be guided in such matters-or shoved along.And Grant-though he was a Campbell-was by way of being family... "An artist...aye,that's interesting. Always room for one more,son. Bring her along. An artist," he repeated, tapping out his cigar. "Young and pretty, too, I'm sure." "She's nearly seventy," Grant countered easily,crossing his ankles as he leaned against the wall. "A little dumpy, has a face like a frog.Her paintings are timeless, tremendous emotional content and physicality.I'm crazy about her." He paused, imagining Daniel's wide face turning a deep puce. "Genuine emotion transcends age and physical beauty, don't you agree?" Daniel choked, then found his voice. The boy needed help,a great deal of help. "You come early Friday,son. We'll need some time to talk." He stared hard the bookshelf across the room. "Seventy, you say?" "Close.But then true sensuality is ageless. Why just last night she and I-" "No,don't tell me," Daniel interrupted hastily. "We'll have a long talk when you get here. A long talk," he added after a deep breath. "Has Shelby-No, never mind," he decided. "Friday," Daniel said in a firmer tone. "We'll see about all this on Friday." "We'll be there." Grant hung up, then leaning against the doorjamb, laughed until he hurt. That should keep the old boy on his toes until Friday, Grant thought. Still grinning, he headed for the stairs. He'd work until dark-until Gennie.

A perfect birthday poem called ‘When You Are Old.’” Everyone chortled, and Eoin looked confused. “Are you old, Mother?” he asked. “No, darling boy. I’m ageless,” I answered. Everyone laughed again, but the O’Toole sisters urged Thomas on, pleading for the poem. Thomas stood, and with his hands in his pockets and his shoulders slightly hunched, he began. “When you are old and grey and full of sleep . . .” Thomas enunciated “old and grey,” and everyone tittered again, but I knew the poem well, knew every word, and my heart had turned to liquid in my chest. “When you are old and grey and full of sleep,” he repeated over the chuckling, “and nodding by the fire, take down this book, and slowly read, and dream of the soft look your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep; how many loved your moments of glad grace, and loved your beauty with love false or true, but one man loved the pilgrim soul in you, and loved the sorrows of your changing face.” The room had grown quiet, and Maggie’s lips trembled, the soft sweetness of memory gleaming in her eyes. It was the kind of poem that made old women remember how it felt to be young. As he spoke, Thomas looked at everyone in turn, but the poem was for me; I was the pilgrim soul with a changing face. He finished, reflecting on how love fled and “paced upon the mountains overhead and hid his face amid a crowd of stars.” Everyone clapped and stamped their feet, and Thomas bowed jauntily, accepting the praise. But he met my gaze before taking his seat. When I dragged my eyes away, I found Brigid

The Carver stroked the shard of bone in his palm, attention fixed upon a stone-faced Cassian. 'What if I tell you what the rock and darkness and sea and beyond whispered to me, Lord of Bloodshed? How they shuddered in fear, on that island across the sea. How they trembled when she emerged. She took something- something precious. She ripped it out with her teeth.' Cassian's golden-brown face had drained of colour, his wings tucking in tight. 'What did you wake that day in Hybern, Prince of Bastards?' My blood went cold. 'What come out was not what went in.' A rasping laugh as the Carver laid the shard of bone on the ground beside him. 'How lovely she is- new as a fawn and yet ancient as the sea. How she calls to you. A queen, as my sister once was. Terrible and proud, beautiful as a winter sunrise.' Rhys had warned me of the inmates' capacity to lie, to sell anything, to get free. 'Nesta,' the Bone Carver murmured. 'Nes-ta.' I squeezed Cassian's hand. Enough. It was enough of this teasing and taunting. But he didn't look at me. 'How the wind moans her name. Can you hear it, too? Nesta. Nesta. Nesta.' I wasn't sure Cassian was breathing. 'What did she do, drowning in the ageless dark? What did she take?

Z ipes’s concerns overlap with those of feminists such as Marcia Lieberman, Karen Rowe, Sandra Gilbert, Susan Gubar, and, to a lesser extent, Ruth B. Bottigheimer, who diagnose fairy tales as symptoms of their cultures’ misogynistic traditions.11 For feminists, the fairy tales favored by a given society reflect its gender biases. Accordingly, Amer- icans’ Disney-abetted passion for “Cinderella,” “Sleeping Beauty,” “Snow White,” and “Beauty and the Beast” testifies to our culture’s expediently sexist projection of women as passively compliant, self- sacrificing, beauty-obsessed creatures devoid of agency.12 The inclu- sion of Russian fairy tales in Western feminists’ sphere of reference would necessitate a modification of their critique, for, Russian society’s notorious ageless sexism notwithstanding, some of Russia’s favorite tales (“The Feather of Finist the Bright Falcon,” “The Maiden Tsar,” and “The Frog Princess”) reverse the gender roles in the hackneyed paradigm that feminists deem generically quintessential.

what we believe affects how we behave—and how we behave dictates our reality.

To me, ageless beauty means beauty that is timeless. Rather than constantly striving to appear young, there is meaning in celebrating humankind in all its forms, ages and stages. In my opinion, the only thing that remains beautiful is something that can touch one’s heart.

Forgiveness is one of the most basic and vital qualities that make for a happy, healthy life and a progressive spiritual path. Genuine forgiveness is not a typical attitude of the heart. It requires too much honesty and too little ego for the average person. It is a deep and solitary process known to the individual and God. Its ramifications are highly beneficial and sometimes miraculous. To have an ongoing practice of forgiveness is to extend our health, beauty, and agelessness. It increases our ability to face life with freshness and energy. We grow in wisdom and glow with lightness throughout the years. The passing of time will have minimal effect on us as it is the accumulation of hurt, not the passing of years, which ages people most rapidly.

It was a thought which made me reflect that though civilised man has spent untold treasure on preserving ancient buildings and works of art fashioned by the hand of man, yet he destroys these creatures which typify the perfection of ageless beauty and grace.

Tinker Bell is dead. Killed by me. There is no way she’s standing on my balcony, speaking my name. Hello, Peter Pan. An eternity passes in an instant. Tinker Bell’s wings flutter behind her. She is the same age she was when I killed her, immortal and ageless, more beautiful than any corpse has a right to be. She’s wearing the same dress she wore that night, when I spoke the unspeakable words to her. The dress made to look like skeleton leaves, cut square across her chest, jagged at the knees. Fairy dust swirls around her and coats the balcony’s railing, making it glitter in the graying light.

When talking to professionals in gerontology, aging, and related fields, it’s not uncommon to hear the assertion that aging is a beautiful process and that it would be unethical, even unnatural, to interfere with it. I’ve heard such comments myself at conferences from people who are held in high esteem within their respective fields. These comments would be laughable if the stakes weren’t so high. Aging is a natural process? Cancer is a natural process, too—cancerous cells are created every day in our bodies. Would it be unethical and unnatural to interfere with cancer? Of course not. So why should we feel any different about aging?

The wisdom of the past becomes the bridge to the future, like the rising and setting of the Sun in a continuous motion of ageless beauty. Healing becomes the understanding of a calm spirit, connecting the memory of our ancestors and all living things, experiencing a sense of oneness in the energy-flow of choice and presence through unity of mind, body,

I already had something of a complex – I wasn’t the prettiest, the smartest, or the most coordinated among humans. How would I fare as a god? Ageless beauty, strength and grace. Well, that would certainly help with the inferiority complex.

Its beauty threatened to make her cry. A short, long-toothed comb like an afro pick, with an ornate handle shaped into curves and swirls. It was exactly like River Mumma: Ancient and ageless. Exquisite. Extraordinary. It had a regality to it—a power, a gravity—and it drew Alicia in. She could understand the desire to take the comb, to keep it, to own it, but she could also tell immediately that the comb could never belong to any human.

While there’s nothing wrong with looking our best, our best is predominantly an inside affair. With modern technology and money, people can make themselves look considerably ageless. However, it is not the right type of agelessness. If we age gracefully and with minimal intervention, then we and those around us are reminded of the movement of time and the preciousness of life. Otherwise, the botoxed face can get quite a shock when death does not heed its camouflaged face.

I’d spent a lot of time over these last weeks thinking about Vale. I was obsessed with him in some ways. I spent all day every day looking at his blood. Admiring its beauty. Admiring that it moved with the same ageless grace as the rest of him.

book Wild Hunger: The Primal Roots of Modern Addiction,16 the rejection of beauty, one of the ageless sources of regeneration, is at the root of much of the addiction which characterizes modern society. The wiser person seeks beauty in all things. He or she seeks to live a life that nourishes the soul, and “the depth of interiority and quality in which it flourishes”, as Thomas Moore writes. He or she discovers epiphanies in the contemplation of timeless realities, and seeks to move through the deep imagination, the royal road to the sacred.

So, here they were, face to face with the Son of God! When they had first seen him in the throne room, he had been nearly indistinguishable from the Father. In a manner that defied explanation and description, both he and the entity who had leaned upon the back of the Father’s throne had been one with God himself. Now, outside the throne room, the Son was clearly his own person, yet his majesty and the wonder he evoked were not diminished. He was unsurpassably beautiful. Tall and graceful, he sat upon his fabulous steed with a dignity that emanated pure power. His snow white hair hung to his saddle-back in thick waves, two intricate braids caught back at the temples to form a tiara entwined with gold. Despite his snowy hair, his face, while containing all the eons of heaven, seemed ageless, eternally youthful. His clothing, while utterly elegant, was simple and straightforward. A gown of blazing white was topped by a sleeveless coat of sky blue, and draping all was a cloak of deep, dark scarlet, its ample hood spread out across his shoulders. Everything was trimmed with gold and silver braid, gleaming gems of many colors peeking here and there from the folds. His horse’s tack was fabulous, all of embossed gold and cushioned wood, carved with dazzling intricacy. But, they had only a moment to take all of this in, before the prince saluted them with an outstretched arm. “Good day, friends,” he hailed them. “We meet again.” Gabriel’s heart lurched. He would have returned the salutation, but his voice failed him. Supporting one another, the four archangels were determined not to fall down. But, it was no use. They simply had no strength to stay upright. Besides, they were overcome with the desire to worship this mighty prince. Slumping to the ground, even the most self-assured of them, Lucifer, was brought to his knees. Again, the seraph flew over them, this time raising them to their feet without laying a hand on them. A swift flick of his fingers, and they were upright, once again. By the time they had regained their composure, the prince had dismounted and was walking toward one root of the mammoth tree. “Follow me,” he said, waving them forward. “It is time for us to have a talk.” Michael was the first to comply. Gabriel followed, with Raphael and Uriel close behind, all of them tingling from head to toe.

You go in through double swing doors. Inside the double doors there is a combination PBX and information desk at which sits one of those ageless women you see around municipal offices everywhere in the world. They were never young and will never be old. They have no beauty, no charm, no style. They don’t have to please anybody. They are safe. They are civil without ever quite being polite and intelligent and knowledgeable without any real interest in anything. They are what human beings turn into when they trade life for existence and ambition for security.

This photobook is more than just a collection of images; it is a narrative that invites viewers to break free from ageist stereotypes. It serves as a reminder that beauty is diverse, timeless, and ever-evolving. As viewers, we are compelled to admire, respect, and celebrate the ageless vitality of the silver-haired woman, who, with every image, redefines the essence of femininity for the modern age.

Why did you have to say that thing about Teri Garr?' said Peters. 'Here I am introducing you to a beautiful woman—' ¶ 'Oh, for God's sake,' said Hollis. 'She's an undergraduate—she must be eighteen years old.' ¶ 'So? You're only twenty-three,' said Peters. 'Love is ageless. Besides, you're probably the most undergraduate person I know. And I know a lot of undergraduates.' ¶ In the row of darkened storefronts there was one lighted window, a café where people were loading up on coffee and pastries after a night of drinking. ¶ 'How would you feel if somebody said you looked like Scott Bakula, or something? Or Bronson Pinchot? God, no wonder Eileen dumped you.' ¶ 'Teri Garr's pretty well-preserved,' Hollis said calmly. 'Anyway, I broke up with Eileen, not the other way around, if you want to know the truth.' ¶ 'That's what they all say,' said Peters.

Wrinkles on my weather-beaten face and hands mirror untold stories of those in the frozen ground whose crosses and headstones bear the same aged features. Wrinkles of joy and creases of laughter join in to create the landscape of this face. With today’s world of Botox and ageless beauty, are we too quick to dye grey hair and remove the well-earned crow’s feet that portray remarkable lives lived?

Not least, it was an expression of psychologically driven resentment towards commonly admired objects of beauty, as the attackers themselves admitted. As much of the aggression can be ascribed to animosity towards uneven distribution of beauty and grace as it can be towards unequal distribution of rights. In statements of attackers and their supporters, there is palpable envy towards images of ageless perfection.

Simply put: once you accept you’re old—you become old. Your

For example, you may not think that acting irrationally would age you faster—but it could. Many studies have shown that the higher your emotional intelligence—your ability to recognize and understand emotions in yourself (and others) and to use this awareness to manage your behavior and relationships—the more likely you are to make better decisions, manage anxiety,1 and be more resilient to stress,2 all of which can help you age well.

If you have a why to live for… you can tolerate any how.

Finally, there’s the often disregarded but equally important psychological age. Age can be a self-fulfilling prophecy. What you believe affects your behavior, and how you behave affects your reality.

Nail these markers at the expected times and your social age is right on track. But if you dare deviate, your social age may fall much younger or older than the norm, which could affect you in ways you might not expect. Being a teenage mom, feeling the pressure to be in a serious relationship or on a career track, going back to school in your thirties, or not being financially able to retire are just a few deviations from the norm that could bring on what scientists call “social stress.

in misty beauty never before seen, sweet sounds of a forest so serene, embracing and peaceful, so fresh and clean as birds songs are whispering their routine. those reflections gleam in the aquamarine... morning light glowing on your leaves so pristine, so angelic, so ageless and always evergreen, dance with me, my lady, my love, my queen

In nature,” wrote Alice Walker, “nothing is perfect and everything is perfect. Trees can be contorted, bent in weird ways, and they’re still beautiful.” Our bodies will never be as firm and symmetrical and ageless as those of bionic sex robots, so we need quite quickly to learn how to be happy with not having society’s unrealistic version of the “best” body, and a bit happier with having our body, as it is, not least because being unhappy with our body doesn’t make us look any better. It just makes us feel a lot worse. We are infinitely better than the most perfect-looking bionic sex robots. We are humans. Let’s not be ashamed to look like them.

She was Venice personified, with her immortal agelessness and her beautiful, mysterious eyes that promised deliverance and salvation, her mouth that had spoken a hundred promises. All of them lies.

in the dark of the movie theater, the two sisters were ageless. They were ten, and thirteen, and in their forties. Julia was absolutely confident that she could design her own destiny, and Sylvie opened herself to books and the boys who came into the library. There were so many moments, piled on top of one another,

The poet floats above— Stateless, ageless, timeless, guileless— A creator of beauty, An excavator of truth, A healer of fear, A harbinger of love.

He's my favorite kind of boy to shoot, I think. A nice boy. A boy who works a demeaning job and has the subtleties of his beauty overlooked by glamorous women and the industries of the aesthetic. The kind of boy who's bewildered and grateful, and will gaze down the barrel of my camera and do anything for me. It's like discovering a new flower no one else has noticed. Pressed in a photo; preserved and filed away forever, ageless and lovely and all mine.