"A wolf in sheep's clothing." You've surely come across that phrase before and it's common knowledge to you, but what will be new is learning to spot the wolf in someone unfamiliar, or even someone you know. And I have to admit that if not for the previous essay, I myself would have had no idea about wolves, or that such a large problem of morality troubles us, because morality is exactly what we'll be discussing here, so upfront I want to thank one of our sharp readers, Ruby, who dropped a topic in my lap that sounded so good I couldn't not write about it. This Sunday's reading will be mildly controversial, but I still hope it takes up a place for reflection in your mind, dear reader. So, to get started as quickly as possible, let's try to picture Victorian London, since that's where one of today's subjects will be walking.

However strange it may be, yes, a fictional character. I feel a little uneasy about it myself, this is the first time I've written about a fictional character here. But before you punish me for it, reader, please understand that meeting this character is genuinely essential if we're to understand what Ruby was trying to tell us, and then move through the whole idea, the main figure (no longer fictional), and finally to my usual dilemmas, which I hope will pull you back into this whole "puzzle," as I called it last time.

I won't go extremely deep into the character of Dorian Gray, mainly for the sake of people who haven't read the book (though they should have). So we'll say only what we actually need. Dorian is the main character of Oscar Wilde's novel titled The Picture of Dorian Gray. It is this author's only novel, and the only one that brought him years of fame, especially after its publication and the controversy surrounding it in 1890. I ask your forgiveness in advance for stretching this out, I know how much you'd like to already be reading about Dorian, but I promise that the thread about the creator of The Picture of Dorian Gray will absolutely make the story of the character he created richer and easier to understand, which for our topic is practically mandatory.

Starting with the fact that the author of the novel was a complete aesthete, in his time he even belonged to a movement devoted to beauty, whose foundation was "art for art's sake." Which is meant to say something like, art itself doesn't have to be useful or even (importantly) MORAL, art simply has to be beautiful, and it was, as you can see in his novel. Because he poured that art into a book, creating something that in my opinion is brilliant. He devoted his one and only novel to running a kind of "experiment," so theoretically, yes, both the book and the character of Dorian were an "experiment" by their author, who wanted to see what happens to a person given youth, beauty, refinement, a person who, despite having all of that, decides to become a complete hedonist, living only for pleasure and for "beauty" in general.

Because yes, the book shows us a Dorian who is everything corrupt and everything rotten in a person. But from a completely different angle, because in the mirror Dorian still sees a beautiful reflection, and to the people around him he is just as beautiful and dignified, without any change, while what is rotten and ugly hides inside, somewhere nobody sees, and that's exactly what the novel is about, because it leads us to contemplate whether, if nobody sees it, a person isn't quite so bad after all. The main character, blessed with looks and charisma, over the course of the book gives himself over to debauchery, drugs, and social life. He even commits more serious offenses against society.

And yet the people around him, under the influence of his so aesthetically pleasing person, fall into a literal obsession with him, and I think that's how I could paint the picture for you. Dorian's character on its own is an interesting essay topic, but I have to remember that I'm writing about him above all to convey something far more complex to you, namely, as Ruby put it when she sent me the topic by email: To what extent does society enable and accept corruption by placing surface appearance above true character?

At first I didn't notice how serious this question and idea were, mainly because I read the book itself good years ago and any themes it contained had probably evaporated, but while thinking this topic over I was struck by just how dark a picture of society you can draw from it, so Ruby's idea will now be subjected to my (modest) expertise as a wannabe philosopher, but before I try to answer it, let's take a look at a second example, a nearly perfect character, adored by the masses, but so deeply superficial that it would be a sin not to place him in this essay alongside the aforementioned Dorian Gray.

The illegitimate son of Cardinal Rodrigo Borgia, the future Pope Alexander VI. From his earliest years he was groomed for his inevitable career in the church, and he proceeded exactly according to plan. From the age of 15 he was educated (reportedly in Rome) by brilliant tutors in the humanities, and a year later, at just 16, he was appointed by his father as Bishop of Pamplona (1491), and the year after that he became Archbishop of Florence. Though, as we might expect, church life would not hold much interest for him. So already in 1498 he requested release from holy orders, with papal consent, "for the good of his soul." He shed the cardinal's purple, preparing for a secular career on a level that would earn the admiration of one of Italy's most famous diplomats.

Before we say who admired our subject, let's try to explain just what kind of power Cesare Borgia held within himself. After going to France (already released from holy orders), Cesare threw himself into politics, power and influence, and as a papal representative he gained enormous standing in French circles, along with the title of "Duke" of Valentinois, granted to him by King Louis XII himself. A year later he married Charlotte d'Albret, sister of the King of Navarre. And from this point our subject begins to spread his wings entirely on his own (theoretically, since he still has his father the Pope behind him), but nonetheless he develops at his own pace and in his own, if I may put it this way, "world," which, as we're about to see, just as with Dorian, will turn out to be treacherous, corrupt and vile.

Just as with Dorian, Cesare too is seen as good-looking, dignified and generally very elegantly presented, except that in his case we get an even greater degree of power. Cesare, unlike Oscar Wilde's character, has power, status, an army, and, more importantly, he has a name. So, following the same path as Dorian Gray, only perhaps from a more capable position, Cesare commits some of the worst crimes against society in pursuit of his goals, including (as he was accused more than once) the murder of his own brother, simply because Cesare wanted to fulfill his political ambitions, and the killing of his sister Lucrezia's husband, on the grounds that the man stood in the way of his intended goal (he himself later claimed) that despite breaking his sister's heart, it was worth it.

Cesare was admired by none other than Niccolò Machiavelli himself, which we can see quite plainly in what is, in my opinion, his best work, The Prince. The best part is that Cesare interested him precisely as an example of a "bad" man who was able to seize and hold power through decisiveness, cunning, violence, and the ability to exploit circumstances. Oxford itself describes Cesare Borgia as one of the most important figures for understanding Machiavelli's political project.

And it's hard to shake the impression that Cesare truly possessed everything that let him cross lines whose crossing would mean instant condemnation for an ordinary person. He was the son of a pope. He had the name, the money, the education, the connections, the army, and access to people sitting at the very top of European politics. And yet his story is more interesting than the mere list of his crimes, cruelties, or even his conquests.

I know a whole crowd of historical figures who'd fit here are probably running through your head right now, so you might ask, why him and not, say, Alexander the Great? The choice fell on him for this essay because of Machiavelli, and the fact that, out of the pool of Alexander or Cesare Borgia, Machiavelli, a genius of intrigue, admired Cesare Borgia far more. And as he himself wrote in The Prince: "Alexander never did what he said, Cesare never said what he did."

So now you can understand, reader, how badly I needed to introduce you to these two figures, because they're the ones who put us face to face with the whole idea and puzzle of human nature: does a person become morally better simply because he knows how to properly present his own brutality?

Wilde wrote that in the novel, but I'd be lying if I said that quote doesn't fit the world outside the book itself, and even today's world. Because notice, we have quite literally accepted surface appearance as fact, we accept only what we see, and, best of all, we want what we see, whatever is invisible is neither needed nor wanted. So what's the moral of it? Honestly, I no longer know, because on the one hand I don't want to immediately assume and write that yes, you can be bad as long as you hide it, because then you won't face any consequences, but there is a certain thing hiding a dark theory.

Because maybe the problem isn't that a person is able to hide their own corruption. That would be too simple. The problem itself might be that we don't actually want to see it. Because if someone is beautiful enough, rich enough, intelligent enough, and, as in Dorian's case, well-mannered enough, we start filling in the rest of their character ourselves. And suddenly good manners become proof of a good heart, success becomes proof of competence, and beauty becomes proof of innocence.

So overall, Dorian Gray is starting to feel much more unsettling to me than he did at the start. Because his greatest asset may well be his beauty, but for the most part it was something else, and to notice that we have to step outside of Dorian's own guilt and look at the people around him, because it's the people around him who want to believe in his beauty. They want the person they see to be as good as he looks. Maybe that's why it's easier for them to dismiss every rumor, every suspicion, and every story that might spoil that image. The truth is simply less comfortable than a beautiful lie. And is that really so far from how we ourselves look at people?

Let's imagine a man who is always well dressed, speaks calmly, knows how to behave at the table, knows the right people, and never raises his voice. We'll probably consider him a well-mannered man, right? Maybe even a good man. But what do we actually know about his character? Almost nothing. We only know that he knows how to behave. And those are, after all, two completely different things.

You can be polite and cruel. You can be generous and ruthless at the same time. You can talk about values all evening long and then betray someone who trusted you the next day. You can even help others, if it lets you think well of yourself. And this is exactly why I'm increasingly starting to understand Wilde's line about society valuing manners more than morals.

And here comes what might be the worst part of this whole story. We don't even need someone to deceive us. Sometimes we build the mask for them ourselves, and then we're outraged when we discover that underneath it was someone entirely different. I've experienced this paradox more than once online, after some influencer, or as you prefer, "public figure," despite years spent playing the sheep, finally turns out to be a wolf on a massive scale, to the point that the CROWD, quite literally masses of people, feel the need to defend him and put the mask back on him, just so their old opinion doesn't collapse and they don't have to admit that this person really was and is BAD.

And on the other hand, we do the same thing with people we admire. Success can become, for us, proof of character. If someone has achieved a great deal, we start assuming they must also have been an exceptional person. If someone is beautiful, it's easier to credit them with good intentions. If someone is intelligent, we're more inclined to forgive their arrogance. If someone carries a name we all know, their mistakes start to look like exceptions rather than part of their character. And that's exactly the problem.

Cesare Borgia is especially interesting here, because his story shows something more. Dorian possessed beauty, but Cesare possessed an entire system that reinforced his image. The Borgia name. The Pope as his father. Money. An army. Titles. Connections. And finally, people like Machiavelli, who were willing to look at his actions not only through the lens of morality, but also of effectiveness.

Do we actually judge a person by their morality, or rather by how well they're able to present it to us? Because if that's the case, then the whole idea of a "wolf in sheep's clothing" starts to look a bit different. The wolf doesn't have to be especially good at playing the sheep. It's enough for the sheep to look convincing enough. And maybe that's exactly why we so readily want to believe what we see.

Because what we don't see demands something far harder of us than looking does. It demands judgment, and with judgment there's always the chance that we'll be wrong. Only I don't want to sound here like some expert or all-knowing sage, because I get things wrong too.

I too often judge people by their appearance, by how they present themselves, and I think that's not wrong, just the way things go. But it doesn't take much reflection to notice the rot in a person who presents himself as exceptionally clean and free of even the smallest flaw. So what are we actually meant to understand? And how do we work out this whole puzzle?

We can probably accept that yes, human surface appearance is taken by outside observers to be a fact, simply a fact. You can see it yourself online, watching public figures and reading one rumor after another about them, rumors which, even if they were true, you probably still wouldn't believe (magic). No, it's not magic, the logical assumption is that it's our own fault. Our fault, why exactly?

Because it's we ourselves who fog our own eyes out of admiration for someone, we ourselves remember that "you can't judge a book by its cover," but we misread that saying to mean only that we might accidentally pass up a good book because of its ugly cover, when we should look at it another way.

After all, we often pick the pretty cover precisely so we can go on to experience a terrible book, boring and muddled, or whatever it may be. So in my (humble) opinion, yes, outward appearance is a reasonable assumption we can carry into our everyday lives. So after reading this essay, take a moment, reader, and think about whether you have a problem with such a "wolf." Or better yet, whether you're able to spot the wolf in yourself.

The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde. It would be foolish not to recommend it, especially after this essay, mainly because it helps you understand our idea, but oh, not only for that reason. The novel itself is beautiful, and I will not overstate it by saying that it is somewhat underrated. It is a short book in itself, and it will certainly occupy your mind regardless of your situation in life.

I personally read this book years ago, but I return to it from time to time, and, as it happens now, on occasions like this, the book seems to find its way back to me on its own. So I very, very much recommend reading it.

To close out this week I'll just say once again, thank you to Ruby for sending in the topic, and thanks in general to every single reader who isn't afraid to pour their thoughts out to me. It's thanks to all of you that I keep learning too, and that Refined Journal keeps gaining new, more interesting ideas.

Until Sunday.