Портрет Доріана Грея

           Iftheseelementsofbeautyarereal,thewholethingsimplyappealstooursenseofdramaticeffect. Suddenlywefindthatwearenolongertheactors,butthespectatorsoftheplay. Orratherweareboth. Wewatchourselves,andthemerewonderofthespectacleenthrallsus. Inthepresentcase,whatisitthathasreallyhappened? Someonehaskilledherselfforloveofyou. IwishthatIhadeverhadsuchanexperience. Itwouldhavemademeinlovewithlovefortherestofmylife. Thepeoplewhohaveadoredme—therehavenotbeenverymany,buttherehavebeensome—havealwaysinsistedonlivingon,longafterIhadceasedtocareforthem,ortheytocareforme. Theyhavebecomestoutandtedious,andwhenImeetthemtheygoinatonceforreminiscences. Thatawfulmemoryofwoman! Whatafearfulthingitis! Andwhatanutterintellectualstagnationitreveals! Oneshouldabsorbthecolouroflife,butoneshouldneverrememberitsdetails. Detailsarealwaysvulgar." 

           "Imustsowpoppiesinmygarden,"sighedDorian. 

           "Thereisnonecessity,"rejoinedhiscompanion. "Lifehasalwayspoppiesinherhands. Ofcourse,nowandthenthingslinger. Ionceworenothingbutvioletsallthroughoneseason,asaformofartisticmourningforaromancethatwouldnotdie. Ultimately,however,itdiddie. Iforgetwhatkilledit. Ithinkitwasherproposingtosacrificethewholeworldforme. Thatisalwaysadreadfulmoment. Itfillsonewiththeterrorofeternity. Well—wouldyoubelieveit? —aweekago,atLadyHampshire’s,Ifoundmyselfseatedatdinnernexttheladyinquestion,andsheinsistedongoingoverthewholethingagain,anddiggingupthepast,andrakingupthefuture. Ihadburiedmyromanceinabedofasphodel. Shedraggeditoutagain,andassuredmethatIhadspoiledherlife.