“Beauty can pierce one like a pain.” I've always thought that this quote from Thomas Mann contains some truth, to the extent of being the starting point for a deeper reflection on what beauty actually is.

There is a coffee shop below my apartment in San Francisco. The owners are Latin American, and the shop's entire aesthetic reflects their cultural heritage. Although there are a lot of things I like in there–the colors, the music, the smiles, and the smell of coffee–beauty cannot be found in aesthetics alone, and every time I think about beauty, I think of that place. They open early in the morning–around 7 am–so they start cleaning and preparing for the day about one hour earlier. I happen to walk by around that time at least a couple of times per week, and every single time I'm struck by a specific scene: coworkers joyfully dancing to Latin American music while mopping the floor, preparing coffee early, laughing together, moving with the kind of lightness that, from the outside, looks like love for life. I can't assume their happiness, but I can describe my feelings. Every day I pass by and see them, they seem genuinely happy; they seem to be enjoying every day's rituals as if it were the first time; they seem in love with life. This is beauty. I hope they are just as happy as they look to me.

There is a song that always makes me hold back tears. It's called “Le Ragazze Stanno Bene” by Italian songwriter Vasco Brondi. There is a verse that says “...sei ancora più bella la sera, quando sei stanchissima. Sei ancora nella mia memoria interna, sei l'interpretazione dei sogni che non riesco a ricordarmi.” (trans. “...you're even more beautiful in the evening, when you're so tired. You are still in my internal memory, you are the interpretation of the dreams I can't quite remember”). Every time, it's like a dagger in my heart. Every single time, since 2014. But this is beauty. I can't tell why; I can't tell what combination of letters and sound can evoke this feeling in me; it just happens. And I let it be.

There are people you meet for the first time and feel like Stendhal in Florence. Everyone sees their eyes, everyone sees their smile. Everyone hears their voice, the way they laugh. The softness of their hand when you shake it for the first time, introducing yourself. And still, you see more, you hear more, you feel more than everyone else. You can't find a reason why–beauty, like love, doesn't need a reason. You try to convince yourself that it's just their pretty eyes or that fun way their nose softly wrinkles when they laugh. Or maybe it's the way they talk, the way they immediately recognize how you feel, their ideas, their story. But it's not any of that. It's just beauty. And finding reasons why someone is beautiful means attributing beauty rather than experiencing beauty. Beauty doesn't need an explanation. Beauty just is. And you feel like fainting before it; beauty does pierce you like a pain, at times.

Perhaps this is where Thomas Mann's quote and everyday life come together to try to explain what beauty is. Because at least for me, the truth is that beauty is painful. And it's unexplainable. You're living your life and all of a sudden, you feel your heart growing bigger, pressing against your lungs, and you can't breathe anymore. But the strangest thing is, you like it. You feel surprised every time, and you love that surprise.

Perhaps this experience of beauty is, in its inexplicable way of manifesting, telling something about ourselves that we are not quite prepared for. Beauty is the surprise we experience when we enjoy the pain of not knowing ourselves enough. Because perhaps, if we knew ourselves well enough, we could explain why that song moves us so much. We could explain why seeing someone dancing in the rain makes us feel like they're living the life we want to live. We could explain why some people enter our lives–even just for a brief moment–to completely change our sense of desire and longing. But once again, we can't give any explanation. And we shouldn't try to give any. We should simply recognize that beauty is not a property of things and beings but a deeply intimate experience that individualizes us and forces us to question ourselves–before questioning others.

This is perhaps what Dostoevsky meant when he wrote that “beauty will save the world.” It is not through prettiness, decoration, or art alone that beauty saves the world. But it's by learning more about ourselves and realizing that the experience of beauty is a process of growth and self-education we all possess. Because yes, we will save the world by committing to a cause, by helping others, by believing in a better tomorrow.

But every morning, in a little bar in San Francisco, there are people saving the world by dancing, laughing, and finding joy in the rituals of ordinary life. And this is beauty.