The Picture of Dorian Gray

by Oscar Wilde

“Harry,” said Basil Hallward, looking him straight in the face, “every portrait that is painted with feeling is a portrait of the artist, not of the sitter. The sitter is merely the accident, the occasion. It is not he who is revealed by the painter; it is rather the painter who, on the coloured canvas, reveals himself. The reason I will not exhibit this picture is that I am afraid that I have shown in it the secret of my own soul.”

Yes, there would be a day when his face would be wrinkled and wizen, his eyes dim and colourless, the grace of his figure broken and deformed. 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.

Experience was of no ethical value. It was merely the name men gave to their mistakes.

All that it really demonstrated was that our future would be the same as our past, and that the sin we had done once, and with loathing, we would do many times, and with joy.

“Dorian is far too wise not to do foolish things now and then, my dear Basil.”

There were opiates for remorse, drugs that could lull the moral sense to sleep. But here was a visible symbol of the degradation of sin. Here was an ever-present sign of the ruin men brought upon their souls.

There were moments when he looked on evil simply as a mode through which he could realize his conception of the beautiful.

“you met me, flattered me, and taught me to be vain of my good looks.

“You told me you had destroyed it.” “I was wrong. It has destroyed me.”

But youth smiles without any reason. It is one of its chiefest charms.

Ugliness was the one reality.

In her dealings with man, destiny never closed her accounts.

Life has been your art. You have set yourself to music. Your days are your sonnets.”