Aesthetic Books Quotes Novels & Stories

Ace explained before he grinned at me. I knew immediately that he was being absolutely sarcastic especially when he spoke about the books that lined the shelves. His collection of books related to our field of work, art, and creativity, seemed very exhaustive and included some rare books that were hard to get in hardcover as well. I stood in front of the bookshelf as I admired it. “These books are amazing. I should steal some of them sometimes…” I said with a laugh. “Please do…” he replied casually. “Which one would you recommend?” I asked.

“Do you like it?” “Why of course, the very intricate designs and all are just very aesthetic. If I were to choose what is more beautiful, whether the modern buildings or these, I’d choose this one. Words cannot describe how wonderful they are. It’s like a palace but without people. It is a one-in-a-million place but the emotions are also one-in-a-million. Because it is just so lonely. Don’t you think so?” “Why would it be lonely if there is no one around to give such an emotion?”

The scent of old leather is stronger here, mingling with the faint trace of wood polish and Armani's expensive cologne. "These are incredible," I say, carefully examining a volume of Aristotle's works. "Some of these must be hundreds of years old." "Four hundred, in the case of that particular translation," Armani says, standing close enough that I can feel the heat of his body. I replace the book carefully and turn to find him watching me, his expression intense. My breath catches in my throat. "What?" I ask, suddenly self-conscious. "You're beautiful when you're excited about something," he says, his voice low. "Your eyes light up, and you get this little crease right here." He reaches out

Before I could even think of closing my mouth the correction poured out of me. “Perfect,” I corrected. His eyebrows flew up at me as if asking me a question. His face was a mixture of curiosity, and annoyance. “The quote. It’s “The more a thing is perfect, the more it feels pleasure and pain,” I said, looking back into his dangerous eyes, “I’ve read this book more times then I can count.” “Is that so? I like my version better,” he said. “You like your version even though your version is wrong?” I said, giving him a mocking smile, "That sounds like something a typical man would say."

The words she whispered to me last night, I don’t think I can ever forget them. With moans as sexy as nothing I’ve ever heard, just before she reached her climax. She whispered into my ears, “You’re so beautiful”. I look at her bare face and I am quiet encouraged by just how beautiful she is without make-up, my hands are still around her waist, and oh what joy I feel as I look at her, I have to be real with myself though, she’s one of the best thing that has ever happened to me.

I can visualize the clock wheels turning in his head, trying to decide if I am capable of understanding the complex poem. I like a challenge! I sit, ignoring the warmth spreading through my body as I lie close to Bryce, opening the tome, and I gasp. The artwork on the page is beautiful and elegant. The lettering reminds me of "The Book of Kells," a real work of art. But I do not have the time to carefully examine the intricate patterns and designs created in different colored inks.

“Move on. She’s not here.” We waited until we were sure they were gone. “I like books,” I told him quietly. “Books?” Aien raised an eyebrow. “That’s a rather wide subject.” “I like stories,” I blushed. “I like learning about the past, reading the stories of other people’s lives and adventures. In Uyan Taesil, there is a library so very full of books that I feel I could read every day for the remainder of my life and never reach the end of them. That seems like a great shame, don’t you think? That there are stories right there on the shelves, on that parchment, that I will never know, and that, perhaps, no one else will either, for I’m quite certain that, other than my father, no one ever goe

I asked. He squinted at my wheel, head tilted. “Why your work so ugly?” Aurora made a choking sound as she tried and failed to cover her laugh. I placed a hand over my heart. “First of all,” I said gravely, “my work is not ugly. You just don’t have the artistic eyes to see how good it is.” Alex frowned, confusion written on his face.“What’s atistic eyes?” “It’s seeing beyond what’s there,” I told him smoothly. “Understanding the soul of the art.”

was written in elegant gold letters. On the cover, a woman in a flowing white dress sat on a tree branch, her head tilted back as she gazed up at the sky. There was something about her expression—peaceful, lost in thought—that drew me in. I smiled softly, running my hand over the cover again. It was silly, but just holding the book made me feel a little lighter, like I’d found a small piece of beauty on an otherwise ordinary day. I probably looked ridiculous sitting there, staring at it like it was some kind of treasure.

"Thank you. Literature has always been my escape, a source of comfort." Her eyes meet mine, empathy and understanding shining through. "I believe that books can heal in their own way, just like medicine. They have the power to transport us, to heal our souls." As Annabelle continues her work, the room fills with a peaceful silence, interrupted only by the occasional rustle of pages turning and the sound of her gentle ministrations. I drift into a state of calm, my mind momentarily detached from the worries of the world.