228 Quotes About Beautiful-writing

Without her glasses Vivian did look a little frightening. She had tight sinewy strappy muscles and a face that was hardened and almost brutal - a face that might have been chiseled by a sculptor who had fallen out of love with the idea of beauty.

[T]welve year old Libby O'Shea coasted on a homemade swing, toes touching a blinding-blue heaven dolloped with clouds.

When I was little, I thought it was terribly romantic, being half stardust, half Southern magnolia.

She laughed. I closed my eyes. It sounded damn mournful, that laugh of hers echoing off the square.

Laughter layered the walls and clung to the dust mites, making them sparkle like lightning bugs in the daytime.

But there was a cloth in his mouth, woven from fear and suppression.

Sometimes there was a simultaneous quiet upstairs and down, like a blanket of snow, as if at that moment no one anywhere in the galaxy knew what to say.

He’d never thought of sex as anything but physical pleasure, or sometimes, with certain people, as an expression of intimacy. The depth of Charlie’s feeling was moving. It was...humbling. It said: I am letting you affect me. I am letting you into the parts of me that I have never shared with anyone—not even myself.

Rye corrected himself. “I can absolutely imagine you choosing the desires of an imaginary future partner over your own.” It stung, the accuracy of that statement, delivered so gently, and with Rye’s hand on his cheek. As if Rye saw the truth of his home’s yearning—its nearly silent, beige-and-white cry into the darkness: Love me. I won’t assert myself. I am made of space for you. I have emptied myself of any identifiable desires so that yours may flourish.