Even in the centuries which appear to us to be the most monstrous and foolish, the immortal appetite for beauty has always found satisfaction.

I can barely conceive of a type of beauty in which there is no Melancholy.

An artist is an artist only because of his exquisite sense of beauty, a sense which shows him intoxicating pleasures, but which at the same time implies and contains an equally exquisite sense of all deformities and all disproportion.

It would be difficult for me not to conclude that the most perfect type of masculine beauty is Satan, as portrayed by Milton.

Whether you come from heaven or hell, what does it matter, O Beauty!

The pleasure we derive from the representation of the present is due, not only to the beauty it can be clothed in, but also to its essential quality of being the present.

There are as many kinds of beauty as there are habitual ways of seeking happiness.

The study of beauty is a duel in which the artist cries with terror before being defeated.

Beauty is the sole ambition, the exclusive goal of Taste.

Those men get along best with women who can get along best without them.