“I am not the same, Henry.”

“Yes: you are the same. I wonder what the rest of your life will be. Don't spoil it by renunciations. At present you are a perfect type. Don't make yourself incomplete. You are quite flawless now. You need not shake your head: you know you are. Besides, Dorian, don't deceive yourself. Life is not governed by will or intention. Life is a question of nerves, and fibres, and built-up cells in which thought hides itself and passion has its dreams. You may fancy yourself safe, and think yourself strong. […] The world has cried out against us both, but it has always worshipped you. It always will worship you. […] I am so glad that you have never done anything, never carved a statue, or painted a picture, or produced anything outside of yourself! Life has been your art. You have set yourself to music. Your days are your sonnets.”