Sections

Volume 1

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A few moments afterwards the footlights flared up and the curtain rose on the third act. Dorian Gray went back to his seat.

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In one point he was more fortunate than the novel’s fantastic hero. He never knew–never, indeed, had any cause to know–that somewhat grotesque dread of mirrors, and polished metal surfaces, and still water which came upon the young Parisian so early in his life, and was occasioned by the sudden decay of a beau that had once, apparently, been so remarkable. It was with an almost cruel joy–and perhaps in nearly every joy, as certainly in every pleasure, cruelty has its place–that he used to read the latter part of the book, with its really tragic, if somewhat overemphasized, account of the sorrow and despair of one who had himself lost what in others, and the world, he had most dearly valued.

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For the wonderful beauty that had so fascinated Basil Hallward, and many others besides him, seemed never to leave him.

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Even those who had heard the most evil things against him–and from time to time strange rumours about his mode of life crept through London and became the chatter of the clubs–could not believe anything to his dishonour when they saw him.

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 His mere presence seemed to recall to them the memory of the innocence that they had tarnished. They wondered how one so charming and graceful as he was could have escaped the stain of an age that was at once sordid and sensual.

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A few moments afterwards the footlights flared up and the curtain rose on the third act. Dorian Gray went back to his seat.

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A few moments afterwards the footlights flared up and the curtain rose on the third act. Dorian Gray went back to his seat. He looked pale, and proud, and indifferent. The play dragged on, and seemed interminable.

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Often, on returning home from one of those mysterious and prolonged absences that gave rise to such strange conjecture among those who were his friends, or thought that they were so, he himself would creep upstairs to the locked room, open the door with the key that never left him now, and stand, with a mirror, in front of the portrait that Basil Hallward had painted of him, looking now at the evil and aging face on the canvas, and now at the fair young face that laughed back at him from the polished glass. The very sharpness of the contrast used to quicken his sense of pleasure.

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In one point he was more fortunate than the novel’s fantastic hero. He never knew–never, indeed, had any cause to know–that somewhat grotesque dread of mirrors, and polished metal surfaces, and still water which came upon the young Parisian so early in his life, and was occasioned by the sudden decay of a beau that had once, apparently, been so remarkable.

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He grew more and more enamoured of his own beauty, more and more interested in the corruption of his own soul. He would examine with minute care, and sometimes with a monstrous and terrible delight, the hideous lines that seared the wrinkling forehead or crawled around the heavy sensual mouth, wondering sometimes which were the more horrible, the signs of sin or the signs of age. He would place his white hands beside the coarse bloated hands of the picture, and smile. He mocked the misshapen body and the failing limbs.

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There were moments, indeed, at night, when, lying sleepless in his own delicately scented chamber, or in the sordid room of the little ill-famed tavern near the docks which, under an assumed name and in disguise, it was his habit to frequent, he would think of the ruin he had brought upon his soul with a pity that was all the more poignant because it was purely selfish.

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Section 1

But moments such as these were rare. That curiosity about life which Lord Henry had first stirred in him, as they sat together in the garden of their friend, seemed to increase with gratification.

Section 2

The more he knew, the more he desired to know. He had mad hungers that grew more ravenous as he fed them.

Yet he was not really reckless, at any rate in his relations to society.

Section 3

Once or twice every month during the winter, and on each Wednesday evening while the season lasted, he would throw open to the world his beautiful house and have the most celebrated musicians of the day to charm his guests with the wonders of their art.

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There were moments, indeed, at night, when, lying sleepless in his own delicately scented chamber, or in the sordid room of the little ill-famed tavern near the docks which, under an assumed name and in disguise, it was his habit to frequent, he would think of the ruin he had brought upon his soul with a pity that was all the more poignant because it was purely selfish.

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To them he seemed to be of the company of those whom Dante describes as having sought to “make themselves perfect by the worship of beauty.” Like Gautier, he was one for whom “the visible world existed.”

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And, certainly, to him life itself was the first, the greatest, of the arts, and for it all the other arts seemed to be but a preparation. Fashion, by which what is really fantastic becomes for a moment universal, and dandyism, which, in its own way, is an attempt to assert the absolute modernity of beauty, had, of course, their fascination for him.

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A few moments afterwards the footlights flared up and the curtain rose on the third act. Dorian Gray went back to his seat.

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In one point he was more fortunate than the novel’s fantastic hero. He never knew–never, indeed, had any cause to know–that somewhat grotesque dread of mirrors, and polished metal surfaces.

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After a few moments–that were to him, in his perturbed state, like endless hours of pain–he felt a hand laid on his shoulder.

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After a few moments–that were to him, in his perturbed state, like endless hours of pain–he felt a hand laid on his shoulder.

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Sections Vol. 2