четверг, 3 марта 2011 г.

 
“You don’t understand me, Harry,” answered the artist. “Of course I am not like him. I know that perfectly well. Indeed, I should be sorry to look like him. You shrug your shoulders? I am telling you the truth. There is fatality about all physical and intellectual distinction, the sort of fatality that seems to dog through history the faltering steps of kings. It is better not to be different from once fellows. The ugly and stupid have the best of it in this world. They can sit at there ease and gape at the play. If they no nothing of victory, they are at least spared the knowledge of defeat. They live as we all should live, undisturbed, indifferent, and without disquiet. They neither bring ruins upon others, nor ever receive it from alien hands. Your rank and wealth, Harry; my brains, such as they are – me art, whatever it may be worth; Dorian Gray good  looks -  we shall all suffer for for what the gods have given us, suffer terribly.” ­