Walking is an amorous art
Walking is an amorous art, an art of weaving. The movement of bodies and of thoughts, the giggle of a brook, and the rustling sound of startled animals among the bushes, all of those go together, all make a unique texture, interlacing atmosphere and dreams, the visible and the invisible.
Beauty always has an element of strangeness. I do not mean a deliberate cold form of strangeness, for in that case it would be a monstrous thing that had jumped the rails of life. But I do mean that it always contains a certain degree of strangeness, of simple, unintended, unconscious strangeness, and that this form of strangeness is what gives it the right to be called beauty. It is its hallmark, its special characteristic. Reverse the proposition and try to imagine a commonplace beauty! (…) This element of strangeness which constitutes and defines individuality, without which there is no beauty, plays in art (and may the precision of this comparison excuse its triviality) the role of taste or flavouring in cookery; if the individual usefulness or the degree of nutritious value they contain be excepted, viands differ from each other only by the idea they reveal to the tongue.
Beauty without expression is boring
Sometimes people are beautiful.
Not in looks.
Not in what they say.
Just in what they are.
Elegance is like manners. You can’t be polite only on Wednesday or Thursday. If you are elegant, you should be every day of the week. If you are not, then it’s another matter.