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"It is an interesting question," said Lord Henry, who found an

exquisite pleasure in playing on the lad's unconscious egotism,

"an extremely interesting question. I fancy that the true

explanation is this: It 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. Sometimes, however, a

tragedy that possesses artistic elements of beauty crosses our

lives. If these elements of beauty are real, the whole thing

simply appeals to our sense of dramatic effect. Suddenly we find

that we are no longer the actors, but the spectators of the play.

Or rather we are both. We watch ourselves, and the mere wonder of

the spectacle enthralls us. In the present case, what is it that

has really happened?