Портрет Доріана Грея

           Wastheresomesubtleaffinitybetweenthechemicalatoms,thatshapedthemselvesintoformandcolouronthecanvas,andthesoulthatwaswithinhim? Coulditbethatwhatthatsoulthought,theyrealized? —thatwhatitdreamed,theymadetrue? Orwastheresomeother,moreterriblereason? Heshuddered,andfeltafraid,and,goingbacktothecouch,laythere,gazingatthepictureinsickenedhorror. 

           Onething,however,hefeltthatithaddoneforhim. Ithadmadehimconscioushowunjust,howcruel,hehadbeentoSibylVane. Itwasnottoolatetomakereparationforthat. Shecouldstillbehiswife. Hisunrealandselfishlovewouldyieldtosomehigherinfluence,wouldbetransformedintosomenoblerpassion,andtheportraitthatBasilHallwardhadpaintedofhimwouldbeaguidetohimthroughlife,wouldbetohimwhatholinessistosome,andconsciencetoothers,andthefearofGodtousall. Therewereopiatesforremorse,drugsthatcouldlullthemoralsensetosleep. Butherewasavisiblesymbolofthedegradationofsin. Herewasanever-presentsignoftheruinmenbroughtupontheirsouls. 

           Threeo’clockstruck,andfour, andthehalf-hourrangitsdoublechime,butDorianGraydidnotstir. Hewastryingtogatherupthescarletthreadsoflife,andtoweavethemintoapattern;tofindhiswaythroughthesanguinelabyrinthofpassionthroughwhichhewaswandering. Hedidnotknowwhattodo,orwhattothink. Finally,hewentovertothetable,andwroteapassionatelettertothegirlhehadloved,imploringherforgiveness,andaccusinghimselfofmadness. Hecoveredpageafterpagewithwildwordsofsorrow,andwilderwordsofpain. Thereisaluxuryinself-reproach. Whenweblameourselveswefeelthatnooneelsehasarighttoblameus.