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PICTURE OF DORIAN GRAY PDF

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The Picture of Dorian. Gray. Oscar Wilde. This eBook was designed and published by Planet PDF. For more free. eBooks visit our Web site at. Free kindle book and epub digitized and proofread by Project Gutenberg. Download The Picture of Dorian Gray free in PDF & EPUB format. Download OSCAR WILDE's The Picture of Dorian Gray for your kindle, tablet.


Picture Of Dorian Gray Pdf

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IN , Oscar Wilde published the first version of The Picture of. Dorian Gray in Lippincott's Monthly Magazine. After vociferous public responses to the novel's. Oscar Wilde {} was one of Ireland's best and cleverest writers. His plays and children's stories, as well as The Picture of Dorian Gray, are still enjoyed. THE PICTURE OF DORIAN GRAY O W was born in Dublin in, the son of an eminent surg Author: Wilde Size Report. DOWNLOAD PDF.

The passing of time and the certainty of his own aging terrify him and he wishes that he could trade places with the portrait, maintaining his youth while the paint alters with time. Basil offers to destroy the portrait, and Henry offers to keep it for himself, but Dorian has a fascination for it and decides he must have it. Inspired by Lord Henry, Dorian begins to seek every experience of life. He goes to parts of London that some people of his social stature never see, and finds a shabby theater, performing Shakespeare.

Now that she has found real love, she explains, the idea of Romeo is nothing to her. Dorian is heartbroken. He finds he cannot love Sybil without her art, and calls off the engagement.

When he returns home, Dorian notices that his portrait has changed somehow. It has grown a cruel expression. 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. I know that perfectly well. Indeed, I should be sorry to look like him. Courage has gone out of our race. Perhaps we never really had it. The terror of society, which is the basis of morals, the terror of God, which is the secret of religion——these are the two things that govern us.

But the bravest man amongst us is afraid of himself. The mutilation of the savage has its tragic survival in the self-denial that mars our lives. We are punished for our refusals. Every impulse that we strive to strangle broods in the mind, and poisons us. Nothing remains then but the recollection of a pleasure, or the luxury of a regret. The only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it. It has been said that the great events of the world take place in the brain.

It is in the brain, and the brain only, that the great sins of the world take place also. You, Mr.

Let me think. Or, rather, let me try not to think. Yet they seemed to him to have come really from himself. Music had stirred him like that. Music had troubled him many times. But music was not articulate. It was not a new world, but rather another chaos, that it created in us.

Mere words! How terrible they were! How clear, and vivid, and cruel! One could not escape from them. And yet what a subtle magic there was in them! Was there anything so real as words?

He understood them now. Why had he not known it? With his subtle smile, Lord Henry watched him. He knew the precise psychological moment when to say nothing.

He felt intensely interested. He was amazed at the sudden impression that his words had produced, and, remembering a book that he had read when he was sixteen, a book which had revealed to him much that he had not known before, he wondered whether Dorian Gray was passing through a similar experience.

He had merely shot an arrow into the air. Had it hit the mark? How fascinating the lad was! He was unconscious of the silence. But you never sat better. You were perfectly still.

I suppose he has been paying you compliments. It is horribly hot in the studio. Basil, let us have something iced to drink, something with strawberries in it.

Just touch the bell, and when Parker comes I will tell him what you want. I have got to work up this background, so I will join you later on.

I have never been in better form for painting than I am to-day. This is going to be my masterpiece. It is my masterpiece as it stands. He came close to him, and put his hand upon his shoulder. He was bare-headed, and the leaves had tossed his rebellious curls and tangled all their gilded threads. There was a look of fear in his eyes, such as people have when they are suddenly awakened. You are a wonderful creation. You know more than you think you know, just as you know less than you want to know.

He could not help liking the tall, graceful young man who was standing by him. His romantic olive-coloured face and worn expression interested him.

There was something in his low, languid voice that was absolutely fascinating. They moved, as he spoke, like music, and seemed to have a language of their own. But he felt afraid of him, and ashamed of being afraid. Why had it been left for a stranger to reveal him to himself? He had known Basil Hallward for months, but the friendship between them had never altered him.

And, yet, what was there to be afraid of?

He was not a schoolboy or a girl. It was absurd to be frightened. You really must not allow yourself to become sunburnt. It would be unbecoming. Now, wherever you go, you charm the world. Will it always be so? You have a wonderfully beautiful face, Mr. You have. And Beauty is a form of Genius——is higher, indeed, than Genius, as it needs no explanation. It cannot be questioned. It has its divine right of sovereignty. It makes princes of those who have it.

You smile? That may be so. To me, Beauty is the wonder of wonders. It is only shallow people who do not judge by appearances. The true mystery of the world is the visible, not the invisible. Yes, Mr. Gray, the gods have been good to you. But what the gods give they quickly take away.

You have only a few years in which to live really, perfectly, and fully. When your youth goes, your beauty will go with it, and then you will suddenly discover that there are no triumphs left for you, or have to content yourself with those mean triumphs that the memory of your past will make more bitter than defeats. Every month as it wanes brings you nearer to something dreadful. Time is jealous of you, and wars against your lilies and your roses. You will become sallow, and hollow-cheeked, and dull-eyed.

These are the sickly aims, the false ideals, of our age. Live the wonderful life that is in you! Let nothing be lost upon you. Be always searching for new sensations. You might be its visible symbol.

With your personality there is nothing you could not do. The world belongs to you for a season. The moment I met you I saw that you were quite unconscious of what you really are, of what you really might be. There was so much in you that charmed me that I felt I must tell you something about yourself.

I thought how tragic it would be if you were wasted. The laburnum will be as yellow next June as it is now. In a month there will be purple stars on the clematis, and year after year the green night of its leaves will hold its purple stars.

But we never get back our youth. The pulse of joy that beats in us at twenty, becomes sluggish. Our limbs fail, our senses rot. We degenerate into hideous puppets, haunted by the memory of the passions of which we were too much afraid, and the exquisite temptations that we had not the courage to yield to. There is absolutely nothing in the world but youth!

The spray of lilac fell from his hand upon the gravel. A furry bee came and buzzed round it for a moment. Then it began to scramble all over the oval stellated globe of the tiny blossoms. Suddenly the painter appeared at the door of the studio, and made staccato signs for them to come in. They turned to each other, and smiled.

The light is quite perfect, and you can bring your drinks. I wonder shall I always be glad? That is a dreadful word. It makes me shudder when I hear it. Women are so fond of using it. They spoil every romance by trying to make it last for ever. It is a meaningless word, too. The sweep and dash of the brush on the canvas made the only sound that broke the stillness, except when, now and then, Hallward stepped back to look at his work from a distance.

In the slanting beams that streamed through the open doorway the dust danced and was golden. The heavy scent of the roses seemed to brood over everything. After about a quarter of an hour Hallward stopped painting, looked for a long time at Dorian Gray, and then for a long time at the picture, biting the end of one of his huge brushes, and frowning. Lord Henry came over and examined the picture. It was certainly a wonderful work of art, and a wonderful likeness as well.

Gray, come over and look at yourself. I am awfully obliged to you. He stood there motionless and in wonder, dimly conscious that Hallward was speaking to him, but not catching the meaning of his words. The sense of his own beauty came on him like a revelation.

He had never felt it before. He had listened to them, laughed at them, forgotten them. Then had come Lord Henry Wotton with his strange panegyric on youth, his terrible warning of its brevity.

The scarlet would pass away from his lips, and the gold steal from his hair. The life that was to make his soul would mar his body. He would become dreadful, hideous, and uncouth. His eyes deepened into amethyst, and across them came a mist of tears. He felt as if a hand of ice had been laid upon his heart. It is one of the greatest things in modern art.

I will give you anything you like to ask for it. I must have it. I shall grow old, and horrible, and dreadful. But this picture will remain always young. It will never be older than this particular day of June.

If it were only the other way! If it were I who was to be always young, and the picture that was to grow old! For that——for that——I would give everything! Yes, there is nothing in the whole world I would not give!

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I would give my soul for that! Dorian Gray turned and looked at him. You like your art better than your friends. Hardly as much, I dare say. It was so unlike Dorian to speak like that. What had happened? He seemed quite angry.

How long will you like me? Your picture has taught me that. Lord Henry Wotton is perfectly right. Youth is the only thing worth having. I have never had such a friend as you, and I shall never have such another. You are not jealous of material things, are you? I am jealous of the portrait you have painted of me.

Why should it keep what I must lose? Every moment that passes takes something from me, and gives something to it. Oh, if it were only the other way! If the picture could change, and I could be always what I am now! Why did you paint it? It will mock me some day——mock me horribly! Lord Henry shrugged his shoulders. What is it but canvas and colour? I will not let it come across our three lives and mar them.

What was he doing there? Yes, it was for the long palette-knife, with its thin blade of lithe steel. He had found it at last. He was going to rip up the canvas. I am in love with it, Basil. It is part of myself. I feel that. Then you can do what you like with yourself. And so will you, Harry? Or do you object to such simple pleasures? What absurd fellows you are, both of you! Man is many things, but he is not rational.

I am glad he is not, after all: You had much better let me have it, Basil. I gave it to you before it existed. You have lived since then. Two globe-shaped china dishes were brought in by a page. The two men sauntered languidly to the table, and examined what was under the covers.

I think that would be a rather nice excuse: It is so sombre, so depressing. Sin is the only real colour-element left in modern life. The one who is pouring out tea for us, or the one in the picture?

I would sooner not. I have a lot of work to do. It has nothing to do with our own will. He always breaks his own. I beg you not to go. Good-bye, Harry. Good-bye, Dorian. Come and see me soon. Come to-morrow. Good-bye, Basil. It has been a most interesting afternoon.

He had two large town houses, but preferred to live in chambers as it was less trouble, and took most of his meals at his club. He was a hero to his valet, who bullied him, and a terror to most of his relations, whom he bullied in turn. Only England could have produced him, and he always said that the country was going to the dogs.

His principles were out of date, but there was a good deal to be said for his prejudices. When Lord Henry entered the room, he found his uncle sitting in a rough shooting coat, smoking a cheroot and grumbling over The Times. I want to get something out of you. Young people, nowadays, imagine that money is everything. It is only people who pay their bills who want that, Uncle George, and I never pay mine.

Credit is the capital of a younger son, and one lives charmingly upon it. What I want is information: But I hear they let them in now by examination. What can you expect? Examinations, sir, are pure humbug from beginning to end. If a man is a gentleman, he knows quite enough, and if he is not a gentleman, whatever he knows is bad for him. Who is he?

Or rather, I know who he is. I want you to tell me about his mother. What was she like? Whom did she marry? You have known nearly everybody in your time, so you might have known her. I am very much interested in Mr. Gray at present.

I have only just met him. Of course. I knew his mother intimately. I believe I was at her christening.

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I remember the whole thing as if it happened yesterday. There was an ugly story about it. They said Kelso got some rascally adventurer, some Belgian brute, to insult his son-in-law in public, paid him, sir, to do it, paid him, and that the fellow spitted his man as if he had been a pigeon.

The thing was hushed up, but, egad, Kelso ate his chop alone at the club for some time afterwards. He brought his daughter back with him, I was told, and she never spoke to him again.

Oh, yes; it was a bad business. The girl died too, died within a year. So she left a son, did she? I had forgotten that.

The Picture of Dorian Gray PDF Summary

What sort of boy is he? If he is like his mother he must be a good-looking chap. His mother had money too. Her grandfather hated Kelso, thought him a mean dog. He was, too. Came to Madrid once when I was there. Egad, I was ashamed of him. The Queen used to ask me about the English noble who was always quarrelling with the cabmen about their fares. They made quite a story of it. I hope he treated his grandson better than he did the jarvies.

He is not of age yet. He has Selby, I know. He told me so. She could have married anybody she chose.

The picture of Dorian Gray

Carlington was mad after her. She was romantic, though. All the women of that family were. The men were a poor lot, but, egad! Carlington went on his knees to her. Told me so himself. And by the way, Harry, talking about silly marriages, what is this humbug your father tells me about Dartmoor wanting to marry an American?

I am told that pork-packing is the most lucrative profession in America, after politics. Most American women do. It is the secret of their charm. They are always telling us that it is the Paradise for women. I shall be late for lunch, if I stop any longer. Thanks for giving me the information I wanted.

I always like to know everything about my new friends, and nothing about my old ones. I have asked myself and Mr. I am sick of them. Why, the good woman thinks that I have nothing to do but to write cheques for her silly fads. Philanthropic people lose all sense of humanity.

It is their distinguishing characteristic. Lord Henry passed up the low arcade into Burlington Street, and turned his steps in the direction of Berkeley Square. Crudely as it had been told to him, it had yet stirred him by its suggestion of a strange, almost modern romance.

A beautiful woman risking everything for a mad passion. A few wild weeks of happiness cut short by a hideous, treacherous crime.

Months of voiceless agony, and then a child born in pain. The mother snatched away by death, the boy left to solitude and the tyranny of an old and loveless man. Yes; it was an interesting background. It posed the lad, made him more perfect as it were. Behind every exquisite thing that existed, there was something tragic. And how charming he had been at dinner the night before, as with startled eyes and lips parted in frightened pleasure he had sat opposite to him at the club, the red candleshades staining to a richer rose the wakening wonder of his face.

Talking to him was like playing upon an exquisite violin. He answered to every touch and thrill of the bow. No other activity was like it. There was nothing that one could not do with him. What a pity it was that such beauty was destined to fade! And Basil? From a psychological point of view, how interesting he was!

He remembered something like it in history. Yes; he would try to be to Dorian Gray what, without knowing it, the lad was to the painter who had fashioned the wonderful portrait. He would seek to dominate him——had already, indeed, half done so. He would make that wonderful spirit his own. There was something fascinating in this son of Love and Death.

Suddenly he stopped, and glanced up at the houses. When he entered the somewhat sombre hall, the butler told him that they had gone in to lunch.

He gave one of the footmen his hat and stick, and passed into the dining-room. He invented a facile excuse, and having taken the vacant seat next to her, looked round to see who was there. Opposite was the Duchess of Harley, a lady of admirable good-nature and good temper, much liked by every one who knew her, and of those ample architectural proportions that in women who are not Duchesses are described by contemporary historians as stoutness.

The post on her left was occupied by Mr. His own neighbour was Mrs. Fortunately for him she had on the other side Lord Faudel, a most intelligent middle-aged mediocrity, as bald as a Ministerial statement in the House of Commons, with whom she was conversing in that intensely earnest manner which is the one unpardonable error, as he remarked once himself, that all really good people fall into, and from which none of them ever quite escape.

What are American dry-goods? The Duchess looked puzzled. Like all people who try to exhaust a subject, he exhausted his listeners. The Duchess sighed, and exercised her privilege of interruption. It is most unfair. And they dress well, too. They get all their dresses in Paris. And where do bad Americans go to when they die? Sir Thomas frowned. I assure you that it is an education to visit it. Erskine, plaintively. Erskine of Treadley has the world on his shelves.

We practical men like to see things, not to read about them. The Americans are an extremely interesting people. They are absolutely reasonable. I think that is their distinguishing characteristic.

Erskine, an absolutely reasonable people. I assure you there is no nonsense about the Americans. There is something unfair about its use.

It is hitting below the intellect.

Erskine, with a smile. Perhaps it was. Well, the way of paradoxes is the way of truth. To test Reality we must see it on the tight-rope. I am sure I never can make out what you are talking about. Harry, I am quite vexed with you. Why do you try to persuade our nice Mr. Dorian Gray to give up the East End? They would love his playing. It is too ugly, too horrible, too distressing. There is something terribly morbid in the modern sympathy with pain.

One should sympathize with the colour, the beauty, the joy of life. Lord Henry laughed. But, as the nineteenth century has gone bankrupt through an over-expenditure of sympathy, I would suggest that we should appeal to Science to put us straight.

The advantage of the emotions is that they lead us astray, and the advantage of Science is that it is not emotional. Vandeleur, timidly. Lord Henry looked over at Mr. For the future I shall be able to look her in the face without a blush. Lord Henry, I wish you would tell me how to become young again.You want to be famous, but then you're not happy when you are famous. If the picture could change, and I could be always what I am now! Let me think. Why had it been left for a stranger to reveal him to himself?

Learn more and more, in the speed that the world demands. When the typescript of the novel, containing over 3, words of handwritten emendations by Wilde, arrived at the Lippincott offices in the spring of , it caused immediate alarm. His behaviour seems to be reflected in the portrait and he realises that his wish has come true — the portrait is beginning to show a corrupted man while he remains unchanged physically.

He's necessary to my life as an artist. But here, more generally, Pater means any book that comes to exert a powerful influence over the lives of its readersparticularly adolescent male readers.