The authority of beauty.

What kind of beauty?

Not the beauty which is linear, and requires a purging of the flesh: Beauty of contour, of bone, of profile, of silky hair and the flare of delicate nostrils. (The beauty that, after first youth, must diet, that wills itself to be thin.) This is the beauty that emerges from self-confidence, class confidence. That says, I am not born to please. I am born to be pleased.

Not that beauty, the beauty arising from privilege, from will, from artifice, but one almost as authoritative: The beauty of someone who has to fight for a place and can take nothing for granted. Beauty which strokes itself with parted full lips, inviting the touch of others. Beauty which is generous and leans toward the admirer. I can change, yes, but I want to please you.

(…)

What do you do with beauty? You admire it, you praise it, you embellish it (or try to), you display it; or you conceal it.

Could you have something supremely beautiful and not want to show it to others? Possibly, if you fear their envy, if you worry that someone will come and take it away. Someone who steals a painting from a museum or a mediaevel manuscript from a church must keep it hidden. But how deprived the thief must feel. It seems most natural to exhibit beauty, to frame it, to stage it – and hear others admire, echo your admiration.

(…)

What is beauty without a chorus, without the whispers, the sighs, the murmurs?

- From The Volcano Lover by Susan Sontag