Beauty is worse than wine, it intoxicates both the holder and

Host: The night air was thick with perfume and conversation, the kind that floats above crystal glasses and polished marble floors. A gallery opening — walls glowing with light, faces glowing with the kind of practiced ease that only comes from being seen. Paintings lined the walls, their colors alive under soft spotlights, while a jazz trio played something slow and smoky in the corner.

In front of one painting — a woman rendered in shadows and gold — Jack stood, hands in his pockets, the reflected light catching his grey eyes. Jeeny joined him, a glass of red wine in her hand, her gaze fixed on the same image: beauty trapped forever in oil and canvas.

Jeeny: softly, almost to herself “Aldous Huxley once said, ‘Beauty is worse than wine, it intoxicates both the holder and the beholder.’”

Jack: glancing at her, amused “Worse than wine, huh? Then we’re all drunk tonight.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “Oh, absolutely. Look around. Everyone here’s tipsy on aesthetics — pretending they’re admiring art, but really they’re admiring themselves in it.”

Jack: chuckling “That’s the modern art scene for you — mirrors disguised as meaning.”

Jeeny: tilting her head toward the painting “But Huxley was right. Beauty doesn’t just seduce the viewer. It traps the beautiful too — makes them addicted to being adored.”

Jack: quietly “Addicted to being seen.”

Host: The music swelled, a saxophone crying softly over the clinking of glass. Across the room, laughter rippled — bright, hollow, like bubbles rising to burst. The painting before them shimmered subtly in the light, its subject forever caught between allure and imprisonment.

Jeeny: “You know, beauty’s supposed to be a gift. But sometimes it feels more like a currency — something that buys attention at the cost of authenticity.”

Jack: nodding “And like all currencies, it loses value fast. The holder spends their whole life trying not to go bankrupt.”

Jeeny: smiling sadly “So true. Beauty ages like a headline — vivid today, forgotten tomorrow.”

Jack: looking at the painting “Except here. On canvas, it doesn’t fade. That’s why we make art — to cheat the clock.”

Jeeny: “But even that’s an illusion. The beauty we capture isn’t the same as the beauty we feel. The painting outlasts the woman, but the emotion that inspired it — that’s what dies first.”

Jack: quietly “Maybe that’s why it intoxicates us. Because deep down, we know it’s temporary. And nothing’s more addictive than what’s slipping away.”

Host: A waiter passed by, offering more wine, his silver tray trembling slightly with the vibration of bass. Jeeny declined with a gentle wave. Jack took another glass, the liquid glowing ruby in the low light.

Jeeny: gesturing toward the crowd “See how they stare at her? That painting? Half of them want to possess her beauty, the other half want to be it. And neither can have it.”

Jack: “So they drink.”

Jeeny: grinning “Exactly. Because intoxication’s the closest thing to transcendence most people can afford.”

Host: The light flickered across their faces, softening their edges. Jeeny’s eyes caught the glimmer of the wine, her reflection blending with the painted woman’s in the glass of the frame — two forms of allure separated by time and medium.

Jack: studying her expression “You ever wonder what it’s like — to be beautiful enough to become a curse?”

Jeeny: after a pause “All the time. Every woman learns early that beauty’s both sword and shackle. It opens doors but locks you inside expectation.”

Jack: quietly “And the beholders? They worship until they resent.”

Jeeny: “Because beauty reminds them of what they can’t control — desire, decay, mortality. It’s a mirror that flatters and terrifies at once.”

Jack: sipping his drink “You sound like someone who’s seen both sides.”

Jeeny: smiling softly “Maybe I have. Maybe everyone has. Even you.”

Host: A gust of wind slipped through the open balcony doors, fluttering the curtains like restless ghosts. Outside, the city shimmered — a thousand points of light, each one a different kind of intoxication.

Jeeny: “Huxley didn’t call beauty ‘worse than wine’ just because it clouds the mind. He meant it poisons differently — slowly, sweetly. It makes you forget the difference between admiration and possession.”

Jack: “And between love and lust.”

Jeeny: nodding “Or between inspiration and addiction.”

Jack: quietly “Maybe that’s why we chase it — not for the pleasure, but for the pain that proves we’re still alive.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Because beauty reminds us of everything we can lose.”

Host: The music shifted — slower now, the singer’s voice low and haunting. The crowd thinned as the night deepened, leaving behind the soft chaos of half-empty glasses and unspoken longing.

Jack: glancing around “Funny thing — everyone here came to admire art, but all they’re really doing is seeking reflection. Everyone wants to be the beautiful one, even if just for a moment.”

Jeeny: “That’s the danger of beauty. It doesn’t just invite admiration — it demands it. And once you’ve felt that gaze, you start to need it.”

Jack: “Until the gaze fades, and the silence feels unbearable.”

Jeeny: softly “And that’s when you realize you weren’t drunk on beauty at all. You were drunk on being desired.”

Host: The candlelight trembled, painting shifting halos around their faces. For a moment, the painting behind them seemed to breathe — the woman in gold watching them, both witness and warning.

Jeeny: sighing “So yes, beauty’s worse than wine. At least wine gives you a hangover. Beauty gives you nostalgia for a moment you can never get back.”

Jack: finishing his glass “And yet, we keep drinking.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “Because even poison tastes divine when it’s offered in a crystal glass.”

Host: The music faded, leaving only the murmur of the last guests and the hum of city lights beyond the balcony. The painting, silent and eternal, glowed under its light — the perfect metaphor for a world forever addicted to appearances.

And in that stillness, Aldous Huxley’s words lingered like the last sip of something bittersweet:

That beauty is not innocence,
but a spell,
one that blinds the beholder
and binds the beloved.

That we chase it, praise it, and perish beneath it —
because beauty, like wine, promises escape
but delivers reflection.

As they stepped out onto the balcony, the city’s lights stretched endlessly below.
Jeeny looked down at the streets and whispered, almost to herself:

“Maybe that’s the real intoxication —
not beauty itself,
but believing it can save us.”

Host: The night — beautiful, merciless, and alive —
kept on drinking its own reflection.