Beauty plus pity—that is the closest we can get to a definition of art. Where there is beauty there is pity for the simple reason that beauty must die: beauty always dies, the manner dies with the matter, the world dies with the individual.
Nabokov
And no, this is not about a reality cook-off show where the cravated judge
eats a bone marrow risotto and then dies of a heart attack*
This is the story ...
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