Dear Lord Henry

Read The Picture of Dorian Gray and then come back and read this post.

Dear Lord Henry,

You are the Victorian incarnation of the devil, you are. What is so maddening (yet intriguing) about you is that it's quite clear what you are, it's quite clear you're a seducer. That in itself should be fair warning.

But your words, your words. Even though if studied hard enough with sharp, unfeeling eye, they're found to be nonsense, lies, twisted, hedonistic logic, all they need is a moment, a few soft, insecure moments to slither past defenses and embed themselves in the mind. What a snare for the trusting, open-hearted! To be presented with one who is at once dangerous and appealing, at once flattering and destructive. Your influence is your elixir, and once anyone dares take a sip you become their god and they your slave.

Though you are a fictional character, a projection of Oscar Wilde's fancy, it does not mean that you do not exist. That's the wonder, or rather, the terror of you. Lord Henry does exist. You exist in the form of living, breathing men ages removed from your literary conception. You live through manipulative words whispered to susceptible prey. You live in the machinations of the base desire of conquest, for no reason other than the lust for possession. You live in the cruel satisfaction some receive from watching the unsullied spoil before their eyes. You live in those who glory in efforts to make the principled succumb.

Lord Henry, you walk in the shadows down the corridors of my fears. But you shall not overtake me. I refuse to be your Dorian Gray.

Cordially,

Me