“Beauty is terror. Whatever we call beautiful, we quiver before it.”
—Donna Tartt, The Secret History
The terrible stillness of beauty. The stillness it seems to embody; the grace and control, the way air seems to bend around it. The way reality shapes itself around the person’s contours. And, the stillness it requires of you. The hushing, coiled, springloadedness of feeling, which must be held back in reverence of the beautiful.
Beauty’s an incorrigible despot, which neither lets me be nor lets me in. A terror, I know.