I am corrupted to the bone with the beauty of this forsaken world.
The fire was silent, the little houses collapsing into the flames without complaint, flocks of sparks rising to the sky. At a distance it seemed beautiful, and I thought it was strange that powerful violence is often so pleasing to the eye.
And they would all smile at the beauty of destruction.
Her smile, I'm sure, burnt Rome to the ground.
That's what I love about fire, how it would kill me as quick as anybody else. How it can't know I'm its mother. It's so beautiful and powerful and beyond feeling anything for anybody, that's what I love about fire.
She was beautiful, but she was beautiful in the way a forest fire was beautiful: something to be admired from a distance, not up close.
Destruction CAN be beautiful!
We love good looks rather than what is practical, Though good looks may prove destructive.
She was beautiful, but she was beautiful in the way a forest fire was beautiful.
All poets adore explosions, thunderstorms, tornadoes, conflagrations, ruins, scenes of spectacular carnage. The poetic imagination is not at all a desirable quality in a statesman.
