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means of development； and evolution； of my former life。 I remember
when I was at Oxford saying to one of my friends as we were
strolling round Magdalen's narrow bird…haunted walks one morning in
the year before I took my degree； that I wanted to eat of the fruit
of all the trees in the garden of the world； and that I was going
out into the world with that passion in my soul。 And so； indeed； I
went out； and so I lived。 My only mistake was that I confined
myself so exclusively to the trees of what seemed to me the sun…lit
side of the garden； and shunned the other side for its shadow and
its gloom。 Failure； disgrace； poverty； sorrow； despair； suffering；
tears even； the broken words that come from lips in pain； remorse
that makes one walk on thorns； conscience that condemns； self…
abasement that punishes； the misery that puts ashes on its head；
the anguish that chooses sack…cloth for its raiment and into its
own drink puts gall：… all these were things of which I was afraid。
And as I had determined to know nothing of them； I was forced to
taste each of them in turn； to feed on them； to have for a season；
indeed； no other food at all。
I don't regret for a single moment having lived for pleasure。 I
did it to the full； as one should do everything that one does。
There was no pleasure I did not experience。 I threw the pearl of
my soul into a cup of wine。 I went down the primrose path to the
sound of flutes。 I lived on honeycomb。 But to have continued the
same life would have been wrong because it would have been
limiting。 I had to pass on。 The other half of the garden had its
secrets for me also。 Of course all this is foreshadowed and
prefigured in my books。 Some of it is in THE HAPPY PRINCE； some of
it in THE YOUNG KING； notably in the passage where the bishop says
to the kneeling boy； 'Is not He who made misery wiser than thou
art'？ a phrase which when I wrote it seemed to me little more than
a phrase； a great deal of it is hidden away in the note of doom
that like a purple thread runs through the texture of DORIAN GRAY；
in THE CRITIC AS ARTIST it is set forth in many colours； in THE
SOUL OF MAN it is written down； and in letters too easy to read； it
is one of the refrains whose recurring MOTIFS make SALOME so like a
piece of music and bind it together as a ballad； in the prose poem
of the man who from the bronze of the image of the 'Pleasure that
liveth for a moment' has to make the image of the 'Sorrow that
abideth for ever' it is incarnate。 It could not have been
otherwise。 At every single moment of one's life one is what one is
going to be no less than what one has been。 Art is a symbol；
because man is a symbol。
It is； if I can fully attain to it； the ultimate realisation of the
artistic life。 For the artistic life is simply self…development。
Humility in the artist is his frank acceptance of all experiences；
just as love in the artist is simply the sense of beauty that
reveals to the world its body and its soul。 In MARIUS THE
EPICUREAN Pater seeks to reconcile the artistic life with the life
of religion； in the deep； sweet； and austere sense of the word。
But Marius is little more than a spectator： an ideal spectator
indeed； and one to whom it is given 'to contemplate the spectacle
of life with appropriate emotions；' which Wordsworth defines as the
poet's true aim； yet a spectator merely； and perhaps a little too
much occupied with the comeliness of the benches of the sanctuary
to notice that it is the sanctuary of sorrow that he is gazing at。
I see a far more intimate and immediate connection between the true
life of Christ and the true life of the artist； and I take a keen
pleasure in the reflection that long before sorrow had made my days
her own and bound me to her wheel I had written in THE SOUL OF MAN
that he who would lead a Christ…like life must be entirely and
absolutely himself； and had taken as my types not merely the
shepherd on the hillside and the prisoner in his cell； but also the
painter to whom the world is a pageant and the poet for whom the
world is a song。 I remember saying once to Andre Gide； as we sat
together in some Paris CAFE； that while meta…physics had but little
real interest for me； and morality absolutely none； there was
nothing that either Plato or Christ had said that could not be
transferred immediately into the sphere of Art and there find its
complete fulfilment。
Nor is it merely that we can discern in Christ that close union of
personality with perfection which forms the real distinction
between the classical and romantic movement in life； but the very
basis of his nature was the same as that of the nature of the
artist … an intense and flamelike imagination。 He realised in the
entire sphere of human relations that imaginative sympathy which in
the sphere of Art is the sole secret of creation。 He understood
the leprosy of the leper； the darkness of the blind； the fierce
misery of those who live for pleasure； the strange poverty of the
rich。 Some one wrote to me in trouble； 'When you are not on your
pedestal you are not interesting。' How remote was the writer from
what Matthew Arnold calls 'the Secret of Jesus。' Either would have
taught him that whatever happens to another happens to oneself； and
if you want an inscription to read at dawn and at night…time； and
for pleasure or for pain； write up on the walls of your house in
letters for the sun to gild and the moon to silver； 'Whatever
happens to oneself happens to another。'
Christ's place indeed is with the poets。 His whole conception of
Humanity sprang right out of the imagination and can only be
realised by it。 What God was to the pantheist； man was to Him。 He
was the first to conceive the divided races as a unity。 Before his
time there had been gods and men； and； feeling through the
mysticism of sympathy that in himself each had been made incarnate；
he calls himself the Son of the one or the Son of the other；
according to his mood。 More than any one else in history he wakes
in us that temper of wonder to which romance always appeals。 There
is still something to me almost incredible in the idea of a young
Galilean peasant imagining that he could bear on his own shoulders
the burden of the entire world； all that had already been done and
suffered； and all that was yet to be done and suffered： the sins
of Nero； of Caesar Borgia； of Alexander VI。； and of him who was
Emperor of Rome and Priest of the Sun： the sufferings of those
whose names are legion and whose dwelling is among the tombs：
oppressed nationalities； factory children； thieves； people in
prison； outcasts； those who are dumb under oppression and whose
silence is heard only of God； and not merely imagining this but
actually achieving it； so that at the present moment all who come
in contact with his personality； even though they may neither bow
to his altar nor kneel before his priest； in some way find that the
ugliness of their sin is taken away and the beauty of their sorrow
revealed to them。
I had said of Christ that he ranks with the poets。 That is true。
Shelley and Sophocles are of his company。 But his entire life also
is the most wonderful of poems。 For 'pity and terror' there is
nothing in the entire cycle of Greek tragedy to touch it。 The
absolute purity of the protagonist raises the entire scheme to a
height of romantic art from which the sufferings of Thebes and
Pelops' line are by their very horror excluded； and shows how wrong
Aristotle was when he said in his treatise on the drama that it
would be impossible to bear the spectacle of one blameless in pain。
Nor in AEschylus nor Dante； those stern masters of tenderness； in
Shakespeare； the most purely human of all the great artists； in the
whole of Celtic myth and legend； where the loveliness of the world
is shown through a mist of tears； and the life of a man is no more
than the life of a flower； is there anything that； for sheer
simplicity of pathos wedded and made one with sublimity of tragic
effect； can be said to equal or even approach the last act of
Christ's passion。 The little supper with his companions； one of
whom has already sold him for a price； the anguish in the quiet
moon…lit garden； the false friend coming close to him so as to
betray him with a kiss； the friend who still believed in him； and
on whom as on a rock he had hoped to build a house of refuge for
Man； denying him as the bird cried to the dawn； his own utter
loneliness； his submission； his acceptance of everything； and along
with it all such scenes as the high priest of orthodoxy rending his
raiment in wrath； and the magistrate of civil justice calling for
water in the vain hope of cleansing himself of that stain of
innocent blood that makes him the scarlet figure of h