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Oscar_Wilde_-_The_Picture_of_Dorian Gray

Oscar_Wilde_-_The_Picture_of_Dorian Gray

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Published by Liriany Carvalho

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Published by: Liriany Carvalho on Apr 12, 2011
Copyright:Attribution Non-commercial


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The Picture of DorianGray
Oscar Wilde
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The Picture of Dorian Gray
Chapter I
The studio was filled with the rich odor of roses, andwhen the light summer wind stirred amidst the trees of thegarden there came through the open door the heavy scentof the lilac, or the more delicate perfume of the pink-flowering thorn.From the corner of the divan of Persian saddle-bags onwhich he was lying, smoking, as usual, innumerablecigarettes, Lord Henry Wotton could just catch the gleamof the honey-sweet and honey-colored blossoms of thelaburnum, whose tremulous branches seemed hardly ableto bear the burden of a beauty so flame-like as theirs; andnow and then the fantastic shadows of birds in flight flittedacross the long tussore-silk curtains that were stretched infront of the huge window, producing a kind of momentary Japanese effect, and making him think of thosepallid jade-faced painters who, in an art that is necessarilyimmobile, seek to convey the sense of swiftness andmotion. The sullen murmur of the bees shouldering their way through the long unmown grass, or circling withmonotonous insistence round the black-crocketed spires of the early June hollyhocks, seemed to make the stillness2
The Picture of Dorian Gray
more oppressive, and the dim roar of London was like thebourdon 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, somelittle distance away, was sitting the artist himself, BasilHallward, whose sudden disappearance some years agocaused, at the time, such public excitement, and gave riseto so many strange conjectures.As he looked at the gracious and comely form he hadso skilfully mirrored in his art, a smile of pleasure passedacross his face, and seemed about to linger there. But hesuddenly started up, and, closing his eyes, placed hisfingers upon the lids, as though he sought to imprisonwithin his brain some curious dream from which he fearedhe might awake.‘It is your best work, Basil, the best thing you haveever done,’ said Lord Henry, languidly. ‘You mustcertainly send it next year to the Grosvenor. TheAcademy is too large and too vulgar. The Grosvenor is theonly place.’‘I don’t think I will send it anywhere,’ he answered,tossing his head back in that odd way that used to make3
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