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In the beautiful, man sets himself up as the standard of perfection; in select cases he worships himself in it. Man believes that the world itself is filled with beauty --he forgets that it is he who has created it. He alone has bestowed beauty upon the world -- alas! Only a very human, an all too human, beauty.

Beauty is an ecstasy; it is as simple as hunger. There is really nothing to be said about it. It is like the perfume of a rose: you can smell it, and that is all.

The simple idea that everyone needs a reasonable amount of challenging work in his or her life, and also a personal life, complete with noncompetitive leisure, has never really taken hold.

The most beautiful thing in the world is the conjunction of learning and inspiration.

There are fine things that are more brilliant when they are unfinished than when finished too much.

I'm tired of all this nonsense about beauty being only skin-deep. That's deep enough. What do you want -- an adorable pancreas?

Beauty is a precious trace that eternity causes to appear to us and that it takes away from us, a manifestation of eternity and a sign of death as well.

Beauty is worse than wine: it intoxicates both the holder and beholder.

By cultivating the beautiful, we scatter the seeds of heavenly flowers, as by doing good we cultivate those that belong to humanity.

Beauty is variable; ugliness is constant.

Work is creativity accompanied by the comforting realization that one is bringing forth something really good and necessary, with a conviction that a sudden, arbitrary cessation would cause a sensitive void, produce a loss.