“Lord Henry smiled. ‘People are very fond of giving away what they need most themselves. It is what I call the depth of generosity.’
‘Oh, Basil is the best of fellows, but he seems to me to be just a bit of a Philistine. Since I have known you, Harry, I have discovered that.’
‘Basil, my dear boy, puts everything that is charming in him into his work. The consequence is that he has nothing left for life but his prejudices, his principles, and his common sense. The only artists I have ever known, who are personally delightful, are bad artists. Good artists exist simply in what they make, and consequently are perfectly uninteresting in what they are. A great poet, a really great poet, is the most unpoetical of all creatures. But inferior poets are absolutely fascinating. The mere fact of having published a book of second-rate sonnets makes a man quite irresistible. He lives the poetry he cannot write. The others write the poetry that they dare not realize.’” (Page 44)
Firstly, it seems that this first statement of Lord Henry’s sounds as if it is true because of the artfulness of its delivery. But that is the magic of it. As a speaker, the audience is the most important variable in the equation. When ignorance is involved, as it is with the depraved human race, it is those which possess the crucial trait of epistemological modesty (that is that the world is too complex for us to understand and we are ignorant people and must take that into account in our dealings. This last part grants ease to always appearing deep, thoughtful, and true. When taking into account the ignorance of the audience, one is given the upper hand. Like the throw always beating the runner, the speaker with the write mindset always has the advantage) who receive the masks of depth and intelligence. I am one. (If you haven’t caught on to the pattern I am very much like Lord Henry, his sins my sins, his glories my glories, though most perhaps more mild in nature.) It is very true to say that people are very fond of giving away what they don’t want even if it is something they need. This; however, is not the same thing. While the results are identical, the true depth of generosity stems out of necessity, guilt, selfishness, or on exceedingly rare occasions: love. For example if I was to have both a bottle of water and a Cheerwine, and be walking down the road in Kenya where they are dying of thirst, and I was to give the water to a thirsty child. Sure, was I in that situation, water would be better for me, and perhaps it would appear I was taking a sacrifice, but the real underlying reasons for that generosity came from my abundance of liquid, my paternal instincts of provision my guilt in walking away from it, and my preference of that Cheerwine over the water. This very poor analogy I hope still evinces the convicting and somewhat depressing true explanation of this “depth of generosity”.
Between Lord Henry’s eye-opening philosophies, which I would call the ‘tree of knowledge of good and evil’ philosophies; Dorian Gray sees the world for what it really is and responds accordingly. He sees Basil as a “Philistine”, which is to say, as a boring, workaholic, sort of drained out pot. The response given is very true to the natural courses of life. We all, as image-bearers, possess some level of ‘charm’: some of it exclusive, some universal. What that person chooses to do with that gift is up to them. Charm is dispensable by nature, meant to be evinced to the populations. The method by which this is done is the poetry of it. For Basil, his charm was exclusive to his artwork, for some, it is in only a few people, for some it is in himself, and for others it is with everyone around them.
It does also, seem improbable that an artist could put worth a notable piece of work, without losing some from himself. Though Basil tried quite hard not to put himself into the painting, he neglected to withhold pouring out himself for the painting. In order for a work of art to be great it must possess a sort of dynamism which can only stem from emotion put into it. A static work of art is bad art, but in its lack of emotion, it could preserve that emotion, that âme de l’amour of the artist. Being a self-proclaimed poet myself, the last portion of Lord Henry’s words alighted on particularly adoring ears. The best part about poetry, I feel, is its opaque beauty, that twists, straightforward messages to whatever the reader needs to hear. I think in this language, though my tongue does not know how. When I read and write poems, it seems that the poetic society has gone so extreme with free verse, non-lyrical, non-syllabic bland poetry, that it appears to be the infamous ‘polar bear blinking in a snow storm’ piece of paper. Poetry should be complex by nature, not by design, first hand poets think far too much before they write. They put so much in, but they receive nothing, for they have weaved such confusing webs in their messages. I, probably more along the lines of a third or fourth rate poet, will trade success in the field, to passion in life. Poetry in words is marvelous, but poetry in actions is divine. I embrace the idea that “The mere fact of having published a book of second-rate sonnets makes a man quite irresistible.” I hope to do this one day. I love the art of poetry too much to not write. But I love life too much to not realize and embrace the poeticism which is all around me. Wilde said it best on the glory of being inferior in art, so I’ll quote it again, “He lives the poetry he cannot write. The others write the poetry that they dare not realize.”
Poetry.
Art.
Beauty.
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