the Garden of Death”
“Yes, death. Death must be so beautiful. To lie in the soft
brown earth, with the grasses waving above one’s head, and
listen to silence. To have no yesterday, and no to-morrow. To
forget time, to forget life, to be at peace. You can help me.
You can open for me the portals of death’s house, for love is
always with you, and love is stronger than death is.
the Garden of Death”
Ordinary people waited till life disclosed to them its secrets, but to the few, to the elect, the mysteries of life were revealed before the veil was drawn away. Sometimes this was the effect of art, and chiefly of the art of literature, which dealt immediately with the passions and the intellect.
Love is fed by the imagination, by which we become wiser than we know, better than we feel, nobler than we are: by which we can see life as a whole, by which and by which alone we can understand others in their real and their ideal relation. Only what is fine, and finely conceived can feed love. But anything will feed hate.
Life is terrible. It rules us, we do not rule it.
If we’re always guided by other people’s thoughts, what’s the point in having our own?
Life is not governed by will or intention. Life is a question of nerves, and fibres, and slowly built-up cells in which thought hides itself and passion has its dreams. You may fancy yourself safe, and think yourself strong. But a chance tone of colour in a room or a morning sky, a particular perfume that you had once loved and that brings sublte memories with it, a line from a piece of music that you had ceased to play–I tell you Dorian, that it is on things like these that our lives depend.
A beautiful woman risking everything for a mad passion. A few wild weeks of happiness cut short by a hideous, treacherous crime. Months of voiceless agony, and then a child born in pain. The mother snatched away by death, the boy left to solitude and the tyranny of an old and loveless man. Yes, it was an interesting background. It posed the lad, made him more perfect as it were. Behind every exquisite thing that existed, there was something tragic.
One should absorb the colour of life, but one should never remember its details. Details are always vulgar.
It is not wise to find symbols in everything that one sees. It makes life too full of terrors.
It’s the spectator, and not life, that art really mirrors.