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When it comes to beauty we are living paradoxes.
We are so deeply wired to desire it, even to dangerously over desire, yet so profoundly conflicted about that desire. In our defence, beauty itself is a complicated concept. Viewed at times as trifled commodities within the larger clockwork of capitalism and at other times, as an elevating force of transcendence. Either way you look at it, beauty is a staple sensibility of modern life.
But beauty in contemporary writing has received a rather curious treatment. It has been relegated in many parts as an inconvenience to everyday understanding - a redundant feature of communication, where substance always trumps form.
But should it?
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