[A man who is master of himself can end a sorrow as easily as he can invent a pleasure.
Dorian has always lived by that. If he didn't want to feel something, he didn't. He saw life and death as a play, and as long as it all played out beautifully, it didn't matter if it was a tragedy or comedy. What other people called evil was, to him, an aesthetic.
But after sitting in that chair, enduring waves of pain while images of violence played out before him, perhaps the drama of life wasn't as pleasing to watch as it once was. No longer a ballet or an opera, but a reminder of his own suffering. Is that what it's supposed to be like? Suffering at the suffering of others? Then how was life meant to be anything good?
Joke's on Ethan. Dorian is already alone. And it's come to feel like that's simply the way of things.
After a time, you'll lose the desire for passion entirely, for connection with anyone. Like a muscle that atrophies from lack of use. And one day you'll realize you've become like them. Beautiful and dead. You have become a perfect, unchanging portrait of yourself.
If you're going to lie to someone, pick someone who isn't accustomed to keeping secrets of his own.
He remembers begging Lily to spare Frankenstein's life. Stupid, worthless Dr. Frankenstein. Why had that been so important to him? Why had he given Angelique a coming-out, only to end her life so beautifully, her dark hair flowing so beautifully over stone, with shards of glass around her like fallen stars? Why had he insisted on "helping" Ethan the way he did, instead of building trust, which he'd always known was the right way?
Did it really all happen because of his flair for the dramatic? Of seeing life as a story and people, including himself, as characters?
He hadn't been trying to help Ethan at all, had he?]
There is...much in my past, [he murmurs,] I ought to feel guilt for. If I let that in--ten lifetimes of regrets--I fear it will destroy me. [He hesitates, remembering who he's talking to.] But it did not destroy you.
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Dorian has always lived by that. If he didn't want to feel something, he didn't. He saw life and death as a play, and as long as it all played out beautifully, it didn't matter if it was a tragedy or comedy. What other people called evil was, to him, an aesthetic.
But after sitting in that chair, enduring waves of pain while images of violence played out before him, perhaps the drama of life wasn't as pleasing to watch as it once was. No longer a ballet or an opera, but a reminder of his own suffering. Is that what it's supposed to be like? Suffering at the suffering of others? Then how was life meant to be anything good?
Joke's on Ethan. Dorian is already alone. And it's come to feel like that's simply the way of things.
After a time, you'll lose the desire for passion entirely, for connection with anyone. Like a muscle that atrophies from lack of use. And one day you'll realize you've become like them. Beautiful and dead. You have become a perfect, unchanging portrait of yourself.
If you're going to lie to someone, pick someone who isn't accustomed to keeping secrets of his own.
He remembers begging Lily to spare Frankenstein's life. Stupid, worthless Dr. Frankenstein. Why had that been so important to him? Why had he given Angelique a coming-out, only to end her life so beautifully, her dark hair flowing so beautifully over stone, with shards of glass around her like fallen stars? Why had he insisted on "helping" Ethan the way he did, instead of building trust, which he'd always known was the right way?
Did it really all happen because of his flair for the dramatic? Of seeing life as a story and people, including himself, as characters?
He hadn't been trying to help Ethan at all, had he?]
There is...much in my past, [he murmurs,] I ought to feel guilt for. If I let that in--ten lifetimes of regrets--I fear it will destroy me. [He hesitates, remembering who he's talking to.] But it did not destroy you.
[How?]