Портрет Дориана Грея

           Therearefewofuswhohavenotsometimeswakenedbeforedawn,eitherafteroneofthosedreamlessnightsthatmakeusalmostenamouredofdeath, oroneofthosenightsofhorrorandmisshapenjoy,whenthroughthechambersofthebrainsweepphantomsmoreterriblethanrealityitself, andinstinctwiththatvividlifethatlurksinallgrotesques, andthatlendstoGothicartitsenduringvitality,thisartbeing,onemightfancy,especiallytheartofthosewhosemindshavebeentroubledwiththemaladyofreverie. Graduallywhitefingerscreepthroughthecurtains,andtheyappeartotremble. Inblackfantasticshapes,dumbshadowscrawlintothecornersoftheroom,andcrouchthere. Outside,thereisthestirringofbirdsamongtheleaves,orthesoundofmengoingforthtotheirwork, orthesighandsobofthewindcomingdownfromthehills,andwanderingroundthesilenthouse, asthoughitfearedtowakethesleepers,andyetmustneedscallforthsleepfromherpurplecave. Veilafterveilofthinduskygauzeislifted,andbydegreestheformsandcoloursofthingsarerestoredtothem,andwewatchthedawnremakingtheworldinitsantiquepattern. Thewanmirrorsgetbacktheirmimiclife. Theflamelesstapersstandwherewehadleftthem,andbesidethemliesthehalf-cutbook thatwehadbeenstudying,orthewiredflowerthatwehadwornattheball,ortheletterthatwehadbeenafraidtoread,orthatwehadreadtoooften. Nothingseemstouschanged. Outoftheunrealshadowsofthenightcomesbackthereallifethatwehadknown.