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"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 a 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 one's fellows. The ugly and the stupid have the

best of it in this world. They can sit at their ease and gape at

the play. If they know 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 ruin upon others, nor ever receive it from alien hands.

Your rank and wealth, Harry; my brains, such as they are-my art,

whatever it may be worth; Dorian Gray's good looks-we shall all

suffer for what the gods have given us, suffer terribly."