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The Picture Of Dorian Gray
THE artist Is the creator of beautiful things. To reveal art and conceal the artist is art’s alm.
The critic Is he who can translate Into another manner or a new material hls Impression of beautiful things.
The highest, as the lowest, form of criticism is a mode of autobiography.
Those who find ugly meanings in beautiful things are corrupt without being charming. This is a fault.
Those who find beautiful meanings in beautiful things are the cultivated.
For these there Is hope. They are the elect to whom beautiful things mean only Beauty.
There is no such thing as a moral or an Immoral book. Books are well written, or badly written. That is all.
The nineteenth-century dislike of Realism is the rage of Caliban seeing his own face in a glass.
The nineteenth-century dislike of Romanticism Is the rage of Caliban not seeing his own face in a glass.
The moral life of man forms part of the subject matter of the artist, but the morality of art con sists in the perfect use of an imperfect medium.
No artist desires to prove anything. Even things that are true can be proved. No artist has ethical sympathies.
An ethical sympathy in an artist is an unpardonable mannerism of style.
No artist Is ever morbid. The artist can express everything.
Thought and language are to the artist instruments of an art. Vice and virtue are to the artist materials for an art.
From the point of view of form, the type of all the arts is the art of the musician.
From the point of view of feeling, the actor’s craft Is the type. All art is at once surface and symbol.
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
I an extraordinary fellow. You never say a moral
A 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 I 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.
He played with the idea, and grew wilful ; tossed it into the air and transformed it ; let it escape and recaptured it ; made it iridescent with fancy, and winged ft with paradox.
The praise of folly, as he went on, soared into a philosophy, and Philosophy herself became young, and catching the mad music of Pleasure, wearing, one might fancy, her winestained robe and wreath of ivy, danced like a Bacchante over the hills of life, and mocked the slow Silenus for being sober.
Facts fled before her like frightened forest things.
Her white feet trod the huge press at which wise Omar sits, till the seething grape-juice rose round her bare limbs in waves of purple bubbles, or crawled in red foam over the vat’s black, dripping, sloping sides.
It was an extraordinary improvisation. He felt that the eyes of Dorian Gray were fixed on him, and the consciousness that amongst his audience there was one whose temperament he wished to fascinate, seemed to give his wit keenness, and to lend colour to his imagination.
He was brilliant, fantastic, irresponsible.
He charmed his listeners out of themselves, and they followed his pipe laughing.
Dorian Gray never took his gaze off him, but sat like one under a spell, smiles chasing each other over his lips, and wonder growing grave in his darkening eyes.
| Writer | Oscar Wilde |
| Language | English |
| Pages | 251 |
| Pdf Size | 8.6 MB |
| Category | Literature |
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