To me, beauty is a commodity and that's the way it's treated in

Host: The bookstore café sat on the corner of a forgotten street, the kind where rain fell in narrow slants and time moved just a little slower. Shelves leaned under the weight of stories and dust, and the faint smell of old paper mixed with the sharp scent of espresso.

A single yellow lamp lit the small table near the window where Jack and Jeeny sat — surrounded by the hush of books that had seen too much and judged too little. Outside, people passed like shadows — umbrellas blooming and closing, reflections sliding through the glass like ghosts.

Jeeny: “Leigh Bardugo once said, ‘To me, beauty is a commodity and that's the way it's treated in my books. It has power, and though that power is limited, some characters understand that better than others.’”

Jack: (sipping his coffee) “A commodity. I like that — cynical and accurate. Beauty as currency.”

Jeeny: “It always has been. We pretend it’s spiritual, but we trade it like gold. Bardugo just says it out loud.”

Jack: “Yeah, but she’s right about the limitation. Beauty’s the most overvalued stock on the market — peaks fast, crashes faster.”

Jeeny: “Unless you know how to invest it.”

Jack: “Ah, so you’re saying the smart ones commodify it consciously.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Power isn’t in having beauty — it’s in knowing it’s a tool. The tragedy comes when people mistake the tool for identity.”

Host: A faint hum of rain on the glass filled the pause. The lamplight softened, turning the pages of a half-open book between them into a golden ripple.

Jack: “You know, that’s the thing — we talk about beauty like it’s natural, but it’s manufactured. Society’s longest-running advertisement. Every age, every empire — different packaging, same hunger.”

Jeeny: “And the ones who control that hunger write the rules. That’s why Bardugo calls it power. Limited, yes, but potent. The kind that doesn’t last — but while it does, it rearranges everything around it.”

Jack: “Like fire.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Fire — brief, brilliant, dangerous. It can illuminate or destroy depending on who holds it.”

Host: The café door creaked as someone came in, a burst of rain-scented air cutting through the warmth. The sound of shoes squeaked softly on tile, then faded into the background hum.

Jack: “You ever notice how beauty becomes morality in culture? The beautiful are seen as good, the plain as weak, the ugly as villainous. It’s narrative bias — the oldest manipulation trick in the book.”

Jeeny: “That’s the cruelty of it. We aestheticize virtue and demonize imperfection. Bardugo’s world understands that — she weaponizes beauty to expose its rot.”

Jack: “So beauty’s not just a commodity. It’s propaganda.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Sold by those who benefit from its illusion.”

Jack: “And consumed by those who don’t.”

Host: Jeeny leaned back, her gaze fixed on the rain tracing lines down the glass, like tears sliding down the city’s reflection.

Jeeny: “But I think Bardugo’s point isn’t to condemn beauty. It’s to demystify it — to show that it’s a kind of power that exists only as long as others believe in it.”

Jack: “So beauty’s power is performative. The stage collapses when the audience leaves.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. It lives in perception. The moment no one’s watching, it disappears.”

Jack: “That’s terrifying. And liberating.”

Jeeny: “Both. Because once you stop trying to be beautiful, you start becoming real.”

Host: The rain picked up, drumming harder now — a steady rhythm like a truth too long unsaid.

Jack: “You know, it’s strange how we pretend beauty is universal, but really it’s political. Every standard is a story about control. Skin, body, symmetry — it’s all design, not destiny.”

Jeeny: “And Bardugo writes that tension so well. Her beautiful characters know the price of their reflection. They trade it like any resource — strategically, ruthlessly.”

Jack: “While the others suffer for not having it.”

Jeeny: “Yes. But sometimes the ones who suffer see deeper. Because they’re forced to look at what beauty conceals — the machinery underneath.”

Jack: “So the true wisdom isn’t in being beautiful. It’s in seeing beauty’s limits.”

Jeeny: “And its cost.”

Host: The clock above the counter ticked softly, marking time that no one in the room seemed to follow. A barista moved through the dim space, her face half-lit, the faint scent of roasted beans trailing behind her.

Jack: “You ever think about how beauty is both gift and trap? You can use it — but the moment you depend on it, it starts using you.”

Jeeny: “That’s what Bardugo means by ‘some characters understand that better than others.’ The wise ones know beauty’s currency depreciates fast. The foolish ones mistake the attention for affection.”

Jack: “And then confuse admiration for love.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Because beauty seduces both ways — the one who holds it and the one who worships it.”

Jack: “So everyone gets burned.”

Jeeny: “Unless they see through the flame.”

Host: A thunderclap rolled softly in the distance, followed by the sound of rain shifting direction against the windows. Jack looked up, his face caught in the glow of the lamp.

Jack: “You know, what I love about that quote is its pragmatism. Bardugo doesn’t romanticize beauty or vilify it — she treats it like economics. Value, scarcity, power — and expiration.”

Jeeny: “Yes. She understands that beauty’s not virtue. It’s a marketplace — and every face is a currency in circulation.”

Jack: “And some spend better than others.”

Jeeny: “Until the mint closes.”

Host: The candle flickered once, the flame bending sideways like a tired dancer. The hum of the café seemed to slow, as though listening.

Jeeny: “You know, Jack, maybe beauty isn’t the lie. Maybe the lie is believing it can save you.”

Jack: (quietly) “Or that losing it will destroy you.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Because if beauty is power, then time is the thief that teaches humility.”

Jack: “And humility — that’s the one thing beauty can’t imitate.”

Host: Outside, the rain softened to a whisper, leaving the glass streaked with light. The city’s reflection trembled in the puddles below — fractured, imperfect, human.

And in that fragile quiet, Leigh Bardugo’s words shimmered like a truth carved in the dark:

That beauty is not innocence,
but influence — a fleeting dominion traded like wealth.

That its power lies not in the mirror,
but in the eyes that choose to believe it.

That those who understand its limits
rule it;
and those who worship it
become its servants.

Host: Jeeny closed the book that lay open between them.
The sound of paper meeting paper was soft, final, like a door closing gently on illusion.

Jack finished his coffee, the last drop bitter and grounding.

They sat in silence for a moment, listening to the world breathe again beyond the rain.

And as the lights dimmed and the café emptied,
the truth lingered — quiet, haunting, luminous:

Beauty feeds the world.
But only the wise know when to stop eating.