How can beauty be painful?

Beauty is mysterious and painful to behold and can come from the obscure and unexpected, such as the hand of a homeless person or the smile of a pig or a short story by a friend. Regarding writing, as I think about it, I'm never looking for beauty in writing, but when I see it, I am astonished and somewhat stricken. I think of Love Medicine by Louise Erdrich or The Pearl by John Steinbeck or The Color Purple by Alice Walker. The beauty is unexpected and deeply affective, making one a bit queasy and uncomfortable. 

The first reaction to beauty is surprise. The second is awe. The third is a desire to run away and hide. After thirty or so pages into Love Medicine, I felt sick and put the book away, unable to fully embrace the stories, seeing them as emeralds or rubies I did not deserve. But, as with great art, I will return one day, soon I hope, and begin reading again, this time forewarned.

The grandest example of beauty that I know of, aside from writing, is the perfection and joy of one's children. There is no greater love than that for of a child. I think of my two daughters, and my heart feels as if frying in a skillet of hot oil. The threat of harm to them bleeds me dry. Each time I see them, I am happy. Each time I leave them, it's as if for the last time, and I feel a little sick.

A story in Love Medicine that I teach is called "Saint Marie." The story is flawless, told by the first-person narrator Marie, who knows what she wants and gets it. In the eyes of the nuns at the convent she seeks admission to (and her desire is to become a saint), she is a no-good Indian girl who will do their dirty work in the kitchen. But Marie is relentless, her nipples flashing like diamonds, her nose for scenting Satan unparalleled. Through an act of torture by the eccentric and evil Sister Leopolda, Marie acquires the infallible signs of holy blessing, and in the end it is Leopolda who bows to her. 

Yes, beauty is painful. Beauty is art that first repels but then bears revisiting, often over and over. The definition of art is the desire to look again and again and again until there is some semblance of acceptance that such a thing is endurable. This can be the case with a painting, a story, or a striking human being, be it in their face or in their soul, and sometimes both. Friends can be beautiful, even though you may see them only every few years. I find cats and dogs beautiful and surprising (having five and one, respectively).

Beauty does not stand in opposition to baseness but drowns it. The mere shade of beauty is enough to stifle the strangest, most tenacious weed. Beauty suffers fools. Those who do not fathom beauty lack a basic instinct of the human being, although even animals recognize beauty, I think. The bee wants to be nose deep in a thistle. The pig finds extreme joy in a puddle of mud. Perhaps it's the evil nature of humans that sometimes causes beauty to go unnoticed. If I were a butterfly, in another life, that would be fine.

So, beauty is painful. It could not be otherwise, as Candide might say. Sometimes tragedy is the calling card of beauty. Children with terminal cancer seem to take on a wisdom beyond their years and grow more beautiful as they pass. Beauty is sad. Beauty is ecstatic. When you feel it in your bones, you will know, and you will never forget.