English "strachery" may accuse me of attacking morality: the
accusation is worse than absurd. The very foundations of this old
world are moral: the charred ember itself floats about in space, moves
and has its being in obedience to inexorable law. The thinker may
define morality: the reformer may try to bring our notions of it into
nearer accord with the fact: human love and pity may seek to soften
its occasional injustices and mitigate its intolerable harshness: but
that is all the freedom we mortals enjoy, all the breathing-space
allotted to us.

In this book the reader will find the figure of the Prometheus-artist
clamped, so to speak, with bands of steel to the huge granitic cliff
of English puritanism. No account was taken of his manifold virtues
and graces: no credit given him for his extraordinary achievements: he
was hounded out of life because his sins were not the sins of the
English middle-class. The culprit was in[1] much nobler and better
than his judges.

Here are all the elements of pity and sorrow and fear that are
required in great tragedy.

The artist who finds in Oscar Wilde a great and provocative subject
for his art needs no argument to justify his choice. If the picture
is a great and living portrait, the moralist will be satisfied: the
dark shadows must all be there, as well as the high lights, and the
effect must be to increase our tolerance and intensify our pity.

If on the other hand the portrait is ill-drawn or ill-painted, all the
reasoning in the world and the praise of all the sycophants will not