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The Picture of Dorian Gray [Hardcover]

Oscar Wilde
4.8 out of 5 stars  See all reviews (8 customer reviews)

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Book Description

Sept. 5 1992 Modern Library
Introduction by Jeffrey Eugenides
 
Written in his distinctively dazzling manner, Oscar Wilde’s story of a fashionable young man who sells his soul for eternal youth and beauty is the author’s most popular work. The tale of Dorian Gray’s moral disintegration caused a scandal when it first appeared in 1890, but though Wilde was attacked for the novel’s corrupting influence, he responded that there is, in fact, “a terrible moral in Dorian Gray.” Just a few years later, the book and the aesthetic/moral dilemma it presented became issues in the trials occasioned by Wilde’s homosexual liaisons, which resulted in his imprisonment. Of Dorian Gray’s relationship to autobiography, Wilde noted in a letter, “Basil Hallward is what I think I am: Lord Henry what the world thinks me: Dorian what I would like to be—in other ages, perhaps.”


From the Trade Paperback edition.

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About the Author

OSCAR WILDE (1854–1900) was an Irish writer, poet, and playwright. His novel, The Picture of Dorian Gray, brought him lasting recognition, and he became one of the most successful playwrights of the late Victorian era with a series of witty social satires, including his masterpiece, The Importance of Being Earnest.



From the Trade Paperback edition.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

CHAPTER I

The studio was filled with the rich odour of roses, and when the light summer wind stirred amidst the trees of the garden, there came through the open door the heavy scent of the lilac, or the more delicate perfume of the pink-flowering thorn.

From the corner of the divan of Persian saddle-bags on which he was lying, smoking, as was his custom, innumerable cigarettes, Lord Henry Wotton could just catch the gleam of the honey-sweet and honey-coloured blossoms of a laburnum, whose tremulous branches seemed hardly able to bear the burden of a beauty so flame-like as theirs; and now and then the fantastic shadows of birds in flight flitted across the tussore-silk curtains that were stretched in front of the huge window, producing a kind of momentary Japanese effect, and making him think of those pallid jade-faced painters of Tokio who, through the medium of an art that is necessarily immobile, seek to convey the sense of swiftness and motion. The sullen murmur of the bees shouldering their way through the long unmown grass, or circling with monotonous insistence round the dusty gilt horns of the straggling woodbine, seemed to make the stillness more oppressive. The dim roar of London was like the bourdon note of a distant organ.

In the centre of the room, clamped to an upright easel, stood the full-length portrait of a young man of extraordinary personal beauty, and in front of it, some little distance away, was sitting the artist himself, Basil Hallward, whose sudden disappearance some years ago caused, at the time, such public excitement, and gave rise to so many strange conjectures.

As the painter looked at the gracious and comely form he had so skilfully mirrored in his art, a smile of pleasure passed across his face, and seemed about to linger there. But he suddenly started up, and, closing his eyes, placed his fingers upon the lids, as though he sought to imprison within his brain some curious dream from which he feared he might awake.

"It is your best work, Basil, the best thing you have ever done," said Lord Henry, languidly. "You must certainly send it next year to the Grosvenor. The Academy is too large and too vulgar. Whenever I have gone there, there have been either so many people that I have not been able to see the pictures, which was dreadful, or so many pictures that I have not been able to see the people, which was worse. The Grosvenor is really the only place."

"I don't think I shall send it anywhere," he answered, tossing his head back in that odd way that used to make his friends laugh at him at Oxford. "No: I won't send it anywhere."

Lord Henry elevated his eyebrows, and looked at him in amazement through the thin blue wreaths of smoke that curled up in such fanciful whorls from his heavy opium-tainted cigarette. "Not send it anywhere? My dear fellow, why? Have you any reason? What odd chaps you painters are! You do anything in the world to gain a reputation. As soon as you have one, you seem to want to throw it away. It is silly of you, for there is only one thing in the world worse than being talked about, and that is not being talked about. A portrait like this would set you far above all the young men in England, and make the old men quite jealous, if old men are ever capable of any emotion."

"I know you will laugh at me," he replied, "but I really can't exhibit it I have put too much of myself into it."

Lord Henry stretched himself out on the divan and laughed.

"Yes, I knew you would; but it is quite true, all the same."

"Too much of yourself in it!  Upon my word, Basil, I didn't know you were so vain; and I really can't see any resemblance between you, with your rugged strong face and your coal-black hair, and this young Adonis, who looks as if he was made out of ivory and rose-leaves. Why, my dear Basil, he is a Narcissus, and you — well, of course you have an intellectual expression, and all that. But beauty, real beauty, ends where an intellectual expression begins. Intellect is in itself a mode of exaggeration, and destroys the harmony of any face. The moment one sits down to think, one becomes all nose, or all forehead, or something horrid. Look at the successful men in any of the learned professions. How perfectly hideous they are! Except, of course, in the Church. But then in the Church they don't think. A bishop keeps on saying at the age of eighty what he was told to say when he was a boy of eighteen, and as a natural consequence he always looks absolutely delightful. Your mysterious young friend, whose name you have never told me, but whose picture really fascinates me, never thinks. I feel quite sure of that. He is some brainless, beautiful creature, who should be always here in winter when we have no flowers to look at, and always here in summer when we want something to chill our intelligence. Don't flatter yourself, Basil: you are not in the least like him.

"You don't understand me, Harry," answered the artist. "Of course I am not like him. I know that perfectly well. Indeed, I should be sorry to look like him. You shrug your shoulders? I am telling you the truth. There is a fatality about all physical and intellectual distinction, the sort of fatality that seems to dog through history the faltering steps of kings. It is better not to be different from one's fellows. The ugly and the stupid have the best of it in this world. They can sit at their ease and gape at the play. If they know nothing of victory, they are at least spared the knowledge of defeat. They live as we all should live, undisturbed, indifferent, and without disquiet. They neither bring ruin upon others, nor ever receive it from alien hands. Your rank and wealth, Harry; my brains, such as they are — my art, whatever it may be worth; Dorian Gray's good looks — we shall all suffer for what the gods have given us, suffer terribly."

"Dorian Gray? Is that his name?" asked Lord Henry, walking across the studio towards Basil Hallward.

"Yes, that is his name. I didn't intend to tell it to you."

"But why not?"

"Oh, I can't explain. When I like people immensely I never tell their names to any one. It is like surrendering a part of them. I have grown to love secrecy. It seems to be the one thing that can make modern life mysterious or marvellous to us. The commonest thing is delightful if one only hides it. When I leave town now I never tell my people where I am going. If I did, I would lose all my pleasure. It is a silly habit, I dare say, but somehow it seems to bring a great deal of romance to one's life. I suppose you think me awful foolish about it?"

"Not at all," answered Lord Henry, "not at all, my dear Basil. You seem to forget that I am married, and the one charm of marriage is that it makes a life of deception absolutely necessary for both parties. I never know where my wife is, and my wife never knows what I am doing. When we meet — we do meet occasionally, when we dine out together, or go down to the Duke's — we tell each other the most absurd stories with the most serious faces. My wife is very good at it, much better, in fact, than I am. She never gets confused over her dates, and I always do. But when she does find me out, she makes no row at all. I sometimes wish she would; but she merely laughs at me."

"I hate the way you talk about your married life, Harry," said Basil Hallward, strolling towards the door that led into the garden. "I believe that you are really a very good husband, but that you are thoroughly ashamed of your own virtues. You are an extraordinary fellow. You never say a moral thing, and you never do a wrong thing. Your cynicism is simply a pose."

"Being natural is simply a pose, and the most irritating pose I know," cried Lord Henry, laughing; and the two young men went out into the garden together, and ensconced themselves on a long bamboo seat that stood in the shade of a tall laurel bush. The sunlight slipped over the polished leaves. In the grass, white daisies were tremulous.

After a pause, Lord Henry pulled out his watch. "I am afraid I must be going, Basil," he murmured, "and before you go, I insist on your answering a question I put to you some time ago."

"What is that?" said the painter, keeping his eyes fixed on the ground.

"You know quite well."

"I do not, Harry."

"Well, I will tell you what it is. I want you to explain to me why you won't exhibit Dorian Gray's picture. I want the real reason."

"I told you the real reason."

"No you did not. You said it was because there was too much of yourself in it. Now, that is childish."

"Harry," said Basil Hallward, looking him straight in the face, "every portrait that is painted with feeling is a portrait of the artist, not of the sitter. The sitter is merely the accident, the occasion. It is not he who is revealed by the painter; it rather the painter who, on the coloured canvas, reveals himself. The reason I will not exhibit the picture is that I am afraid that I have shown in it the secret of my soul."

Lord Henry laughed. "And what is that?" he asked.

"I will tell you," said Hallward; but an expression of perplexity came over his face.

"I am all expectation, Basil," continued his companion, glancing at him.

"Oh, there is really very little to tell, Harry," answered the painter; "and I am afraid you will hardly understand it. Perhaps you will hardly believe it."

Lord Henry smiled, and, leaning down, plucked a pink-petalled daisy from the grass, and examined it. "I am quite sure I shall understand it," he replied, gazing intently at the little golden white-feathered disk, "and as for believing things, I can believe anything, provided that it is quite incredible."

The wind shook some blossoms from the trees, and the heavy lilac-blooms, with their clustering stars, moved to and fro in the languid air. A grasshopper began to chirrup by the wall, and like a blue thread a long thing dragon-fly floated past on its brown gauze wings. Lord Henry felt as if he could hear Basil Hallward's heart beating, and wondered what was coming.

"The story is simply this," and the painter after some time. "Two months ago I went to a crush at Lady Brandon's. You know we poor artists have to show ourselves in society from time to time, just to remind the public that we are not savages. With an evening coat and a white tie, as you told me once, anybody, even a stockbroker, can gain a reputation for being civilized. Well, after I had been in the room about ten minutes, talking to huge over-dressed dowagers and tedious Academicians, I suddenly became conscious that some one was looking at me. I turned half-way round, and saw Dorian Gray for the first time. When our eyes met, I felt that I was growing pale. A curious sensation of terror came over me. I knew that I had come face to face with some one whose mere personality was so fascinating that, if I allowed it to do so, it would absorb my whole nature, my soul, my very art itself. I did not want any external influence in my life. You know I did not want any external influence in my life. I have always been my own master; had at least always been so, till I met Dorian Gray. Then— but I don't know how to explain it to you. Something seemed to tell me that I was on the verge of a terrible crisis in my life. I had a strange feeling that Fate had in store for me exquisite joys and exquisite sorrows. I grew afraid, and turned to quite the room. It was not conscience that made me do so; it was a sort of cowardice. I take no credit to myself for trying to escape."

"Conscience and cowardice are really the same things, Basil. Conscience is the trade-name of the firm. That is all."

"I don't believe that, Harry, and I don't believe you do either. However, whatever was my motive — and it may have been pride, for I used to be very proud — I certainly struggled to the door. There, of course, I stumbled against Lady Brandon. 'You are not going to run away so soon, Mr. Hallward?' she screamed out. You know her curiously shrill voice?"

"Yes; she is a peacock in everything but beauty," said Lord Henry, pulling the daisy to bits with his long, nervous fingers.

"I could not get rid of her. She brought me up to Royalties, and people with Stars and Garters, and elderly ladies with gigantic tiaras and parrot noses. She spoke of me as her dearest friend. I had only met her once before, but she took it into her head to lionize me. I believe some picture of mine had made a great success at the time, at least had been chattered about in the penny newspapers, which is the nineteenth-century standard of immortality. Suddenly I found myself face to face with the young man whose personality had so strangely stirred me. We were quite close, almost touching. Our eyes met again. It was reckless of me, but I asked Lady Brandon to introduce me to him. perhaps it was not so reckless, after all. It was simply inevitable. We would have spoken to each other without any introduction. I am sure of that. Dorian told me so afterwards. He, too, felt that we were destined to know each other."

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5.0 out of 5 stars Possibly not the easiest read, but... May 11 2003
Format:Hardcover
The novel "The Picture of Dorian Gray" by Oscar Wilde is yet another triumph for this talented author. The dark tale of a young man who unknowingly sells his soul in order to stay forever young is wittily brought across through three main characters, each resembling a different part of Wilde himself.
Dorian, the main character, represents what Wilde himself said he would like to be, yet Dorian also clearly resembles part of Wilde: the part that was once young and innocent before becoming corrupted by the world he lived in.
Henry Wooton, the man responsible for the corruption of Dorian Gray, is the side of Oscar Wilde that the world thought was the true Wilde: carefree and conceited, caring nothing for other people, yet extremely witty. This is also Wilde, as far as the witty and carefree parts go. Only when Henry displays his rare moments of care for other people does this character seem like Wilde.
Basil, the man who paints the infamous picture of Dorian, is the character who Wilde found himself to be the most like. Quiet and withdrawn, Basil is a caring man with a good consience who completely adores Dorian. Out of the entire novel, Basil is one of the few truly good people.
This novel does, however, have it's shortcomings. Lord Henry Wooton's wife is introduced in a scene and given an extremely interesting description. She is a nervous woman who laughs often and also displays the wit that Wilde was so famous for. This description, however, makes one think that she will be extremely important later, when in truth, she never shows up again (though she is mentioned once by Henry). There is also a chapter that delves a little too deeply into the obsessions that Dorian went through, going into long run-on sentances and too-long descriptions.
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4.0 out of 5 stars Wilde Really Was a Genius Jan. 1 2002
Format:Hardcover
When Wilde landed in America in 1882 for a lecture tour, he was asked if he had anything to declare. He responded, "Only my genius." Okay now, an attitude like that didn't exactly make me want to read any of his works for a long time. Finally, I decided to try The Picture of Dorian Grey, and I found that it really was a work of genius.
The novel is the story of Dorian Grey who at the beginning of the novel has his portrait painted by Basil Hallward. The picture turns out to be remarkable, and Grey becomes jealous because the picture will remain young and beautiful while he will age. He expresses a wish that the picture would age instead of himself. To his delight, his wish becomes true, and believing himself to be immortal, he embarks on a path of of hedonism. He always searches for pleasure above happiness, and above all things he loves beauty. Along the way, the portrait chronicles the total moral decay of Dorian Grey.
The are a lot of interpretations to this novel. My favorite is to read it as a moral tale warning of the consequences of leading a life of hedonism. It could almost be read as "The Picture of Oscar Wilde" as he seems to be criticizing his own lifestyle. This is probably also the most ironic reading of it since Wilde continued after the novel to preach aestheticism. But anyway, taken within itself, the novel is marvelous. The prose is well-polished. The pacing is elegant and the plot is always interesting. The points is makes are important. The Picture of Dorian Grey deserves its classic status, and Oscar Wilde actually was a bit of a genius.
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Format:Hardcover
Wow! This book knocked me out of my seat. It's relentless from beginning to end. All throughout you want to rush through the pages to see how the story concludes. What will happen to Dorian? What will become of the hideous painting?
The book's three main characters are Basil Hallward, the painter; Dorian Gray, the paintee; and Lord Henry, the intellectual mind behind Dorian Gray. It seems as if all of Dorian Gray's evils are inspired by his sidekick, Lord Henry. So, throughout the story, the reader is left asking: "Is this guy a villain?" As to the answer to that question, it still remains uncertain to me.
And the ending - oh! - flawless, impeccable, divine! I dare not give it away, for you must venture into those pages to find out where all the events lead to. The last page of the book is truly the climax. You'll be left shivering with sweat trickling down your forehead just to see what happens.
"Of all people in the world the English have the least sense of the beauty of literature," Lord Henry claims in one part of the story. Nay, they don't, I must say - for it was an Englishman that produced this book!
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5.0 out of 5 stars Obbesion, Horror and Beauty Oct. 26 2003
By A Customer
Format:Hardcover
I picked up this book on a whim at a local bookstore knowing little to nothing about Oscar Wilde. This story kept me entranced the entire time. I, like Basil, was completely infautated with Dorian Gray from the moment his name was annouced. A beautiful boy completely unspoiled by the darkness in the world. A boy immeressed in the decendance of his times. When Dorian realizes he too must face mortality and it's grip on his beauty he makes a wish to never lose his youth and beauty, to instead let his painting age for him. This the painting does... from the curve of his lips to the look in his eyes. Dorian uses this completely to his advantage and commits selfish and horrible acts all the while hidden under a charming smile and innocent face. A Picture of Dorian Gray is now one of my most favorite books of all time. If only Wilde had written more than one novel!
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