ドリアン・グレイの肖像

t often happens that the real tragedies of life occur in such an inartistic manner that they hurt us by their crude violence, their absolute incoherence, their absurd want of meaning, their entire lack of style. They affect us just as vulgarity affects us. They give us an impression of sheer brute force, and we revolt against that.

It has all the terrible beauty of a great tragedy, a tragedy in which I took part, but by which I have not been wounded.

she would have soon found out that you were absolutely indifferent to her. And when a woman finds that out about her husband, she either becomes dreadfully dowdy, or wears very smart bonnets that some other woman’s husband has to pay for.

His unreal and selfish love would yield to some higher influence, would be transformed into some nobler passion, and the portrait that Basil Hallward had painted of him would be a guide to him through life, would be to him what holiness was to some, and conscience to others, and the fear of God to us all.

Anything would be better than this dreadful state of doubt.

we live in an age when only unnecessary things are absolutely necessary to us

It held the secret of his life, and told his story. It had taught him to love his own beauty. Would it teach him to loathe his own soul?

Besides, women were better suit- ed to bear sorrow than men. They lived on their emotions. They only thought of their emotions. When they took lovers, it was merely to have some one with whom they could have scenes.

There is always something ridiculous about the passions of people whom one has ceased to love.

How little you can know of love, if you say it mars your art!