He was conscious—­and the thought brought a gleam of pleasure into his brown agate eyes—­that it was through certain words of his, musical words said with musical utterance, that Dorian Gray’s soul had turned to this white girl and bowed in worship before her.  To a large extent, the lad was his own creation.  He had made him premature.  That was something.  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.  But now and then a complex personality took the place and assumed the office of art, was indeed, in its [31] way, a real work of art, Life having its elaborate masterpieces, just as poetry has, or sculpture, or painting.

Yes, the lad was premature.  He was gathering his harvest while it was yet spring.  The pulse and passion of youth were in him, but he was becoming self-conscious.  It was delightful to watch him.  With his beautiful face, and his beautiful soul, he was a thing to wonder at.  It was no matter how it all ended, or was destined to end.  He was like one of those gracious figures in a pageant or a play, whose joys seem to be remote from one, but whose sorrows stir one’s sense of beauty, and whose wounds are like red roses.

Soul and body, body and soul—­how mysterious they were!  There was animalism in the soul, and the body had its moments of spirituality.  The senses could refine, and the intellect could degrade.  Who could say where the fleshly impulse ceased, or the psychical impulse began?  How shallow were the arbitrary definitions of ordinary psychologists!  And yet how difficult to decide between the claims of the various schools!  Was the soul a shadow seated in the house of sin?  Or was the body really in the soul, as Giordano Bruno thought?  The separation of spirit from matter was a mystery, and the union of spirit with matter was a mystery also.

He began to wonder whether we should ever make psychology so absolute a science that each little spring of life would be revealed to us.  As it was, we always misunderstood ourselves, and rarely understood others.  Experience was of no ethical value.  It was merely the name we gave to our mistakes.  Men had, as a rule, regarded it as a mode of warning, had claimed for it a certain moral efficacy in the formation of character, had praised it as something that taught us what to follow and showed us what to avoid.  But there was no motive power in experience.  It was as little of an active cause as conscience itself.  All that it really demonstrated was that our future would be the same as our past, and that the sin we had done once, and with loathing, we would do many times, and with joy.