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The Picture of Dorian Gray - Oscar Wilde

The Picture of Dorian Gray - Oscar Wilde

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Published by Abderrahman Najjar
The novel tells of a young man named Dorian Gray, the subject of a painting by artist Basil Hallward. Basil is impressed by Dorian's beauty and becomes infatuated with him, believing his beauty is responsible for a new mode in his art. Dorian meets Lord Henry Wotton, a friend of Basil's, and becomes enthralled by Lord Henry's world view. Espousing a new hedonism, Lord Henry suggests the only things worth pursuing in life are beauty and fulfillment of the senses. Realizing that one day his beauty will fade, Dorian (whimsically) expresses a desire to sell his soul to ensure the portrait Basil has painted would age rather than himself. Dorian's wish is fulfilled, plunging him into debauched acts. The portrait serves as a reminder of the effect each act has upon his soul, with each sin displayed as a disfigurement of his form, or through a sign of aging.
The novel tells of a young man named Dorian Gray, the subject of a painting by artist Basil Hallward. Basil is impressed by Dorian's beauty and becomes infatuated with him, believing his beauty is responsible for a new mode in his art. Dorian meets Lord Henry Wotton, a friend of Basil's, and becomes enthralled by Lord Henry's world view. Espousing a new hedonism, Lord Henry suggests the only things worth pursuing in life are beauty and fulfillment of the senses. Realizing that one day his beauty will fade, Dorian (whimsically) expresses a desire to sell his soul to ensure the portrait Basil has painted would age rather than himself. Dorian's wish is fulfilled, plunging him into debauched acts. The portrait serves as a reminder of the effect each act has upon his soul, with each sin displayed as a disfigurement of his form, or through a sign of aging.

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Published by: Abderrahman Najjar on Feb 06, 2011
Copyright:Public Domain

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11/17/2014

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B󰁹 O󰁳󰁣󰁡󰁲 W󰁩󰁬󰁤󰁥 (󰀱󰀸󰀹󰀰)
 
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C󰁨󰁡󰁰󰁴󰁥󰁲 I
he studio was filled with the rich odor o roses, and when the light summer wind stirred amidst the trees o the garden there came through the open door the heavy scent o the lilac, or the more delicate perume o the pink-flowering thorn.From the corner o the divan o Persian saddle-bags on which he was lying, smoking, as usual, innumerable ciga-rettes, Lord Henry Wotton could just catch the gleam o the honey-sweet and honey-colored blossoms o the laburnum, whose tremulous branches seemed hardly able to bear the burden o a beauty so flame-like as theirs; and now and then the antastic shadows o birds in flight flitted across the long tussore-silk curtains that were stretched in ront o the huge window, producing a kind o momentary Japanese effect, and making him think o those pallid jade-aced painters who, in an art that is necessarily immobile, seek to convey the sense o swifness and motion. Te sullen murmur o the bees shouldering their way through the long unmown grass, or circling with monotonous insistence round the black-crocketed spires o the early June hollyhocks, seemed to make the stillness more oppressive, and the dim roar o London was like the bourdon note o a distant organ.In the centre o the room, clamped to an upright easel, stood the ull-length portrait o a young man o extraordi-
 
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nary personal beauty, and in ront o it, some little distance away, was sitting the artist himsel, Basil Hallward, whose sudden disappearance some years ago caused, at the time, such public excitement, and gave rise to so many strange conjectures.As he looked at the gracious and comely orm he had so skilully mirrored in his art, a smile o pleasure passed across his ace, 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 rom which he eared 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. Te Academy is too large and too vulgar. Te Grosvenor is the only place.‘I don’t think I will send it anywhere,’ he answered, toss-ing his head back in that odd way that used to make his riends laugh at him at Oxord. ‘No: I won’t send it any-where.’Lord Henry elevated his eyebrows, and looked at him in amazement through the thin blue wreaths o smoke that curled up in such anciul whorls rom his heavy opium-tainted cigarette. ‘Not send it anywhere? My dear ellow, 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 o you, or there is only one thing in the world worse than being talked about, and that is not being talked about.

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