These are some links I found when researching the uncensored version of this book:
Here are some sources for all of the adaptions of this story:
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Notebook for The Picture of Dorian Gray (Wisehouse Classics - with original illustrations by Eugene Dété) Wilde, Oscar
‘Because to influence a person is to give him one’s own soul. He does not think his natural thoughts, or burn with his natural passions. His virtues are not real to him. His sins, if there are such things as sins, are borrowed. He becomes an echo of some one else’s music, an actor of a part that has not been written for him. The aim of life is self-development. To realize one’s nature perfectly – that is what each of us is here for. People are afraid of themselves, nowadays. They have forgotten the highest of all duties, the duty that one owes to one’s self. Of course they are charitable. They feed the hungry, and clothe the beggar. But their own souls starve, and are naked. 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. And yet –’
‘Just turn your head a little more to the right, Dorian, like a good boy,’ said the painter, deep in his work, and conscious only that a look had come into the lad’s face that he had never seen there before. (20)
Lord Henry has a point to all this. I think it's interesting. Also, that good boy part got me like lol ;)
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. Words! 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! They seemed to be able to give a plastic form to formless things, and to have a music of their own as sweet as that of viol or of lute. Mere words! Was there anything so real as words? (21)
The "mere words" in this very book presents a vivid picture in my mind and I enjoy it immensely!
‘Yes,’ continued Lord Henry, ‘that is one of the great secrets of life–to cure the soul by means of the senses, and the senses by means of the soul. You are a wonderful creation. You know more than you think you know, just as you know less than you want to know.’ (23)
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. Youth! Youth! There is absolutely nothing in the world but youth!’ (25)
‘I am waiting,’ he cried. ‘Do come in. The light is quite perfect, and you can bring your drinks.’ (26)
Basil is such a geek and cute lol XD
…and his cheeks flushed for a moment with pleasure. (27)
As he thought of it, a sharp pang of pain struck through him like a knife, and made each delicate fibre of his nature quiver. 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. (27-28)
This silly boy doesn’t really want it, and I really do.’
‘If you let any one have it but me, Basil, I shall never forgive you!’ cried Dorian Gray; ‘and I don’t allow people to call me a silly boy.’
‘You know the picture is yours, Dorian. I gave it to you before it existed.’
‘And you know you have been a little silly, Mr Gray, and that you don’t really object to being reminded that you are extremely young.’ (30)
lol "silly boy," Dorian doesn't like to be called that, but Henry still calls him silly! XD
Talking to him was like playing upon an exquisite violin. He answered to every touch and thrill of the bow. . . . There was something terribly enthralling in the exercise of influence. No other activity was like it. (39)
Dorian bowed to him shyly from the end of the table, a flush of pleasure stealing into his cheek. (40)
smiling, and he looked down the table and caught a bright answering glance. (43)
He felt that the eyes of Dorian Gray were fixed on him, and the consciousness that amongst his audience there was one whose temperament he wished to fascinate, seemed to give his wit keenness, and to lend colour to his imagination. He was brilliant, fantastic, irresponsible. He charmed his listeners out of themselves, and they followed his pipe laughing. Dorian Gray never took his gaze off him, but sat like one under a spell, smiles chasing each other over his lips, and wonder growing grave in his darkening eyes. (45)
Lord Henry laughed, and rose. ‘I am going to the Park,’ he cried. As he was passing out of the door Dorian Gray touched him on the arm. ‘Let me come with you,’ he murmured. (47)
Is there something going on between Lord Henry and Dorian? wink wink ;)
and through the small leaded panes of the window streamed the apricot-coloured light of a summer day in London. (48)
So the lad was looking rather sulky, as with listless fingers he turned over the pages of an elaborately illustrated edition of (48)
Nowadays people know the price of everything, and the value of nothing (50)
Men marry because they are tired; women, because they are curious: both are disappointed.’ (51)
a husky tragedy voice (54)
He was walking up and down the room as he spoke. Hectic spots of red burned on his cheeks. He was terribly excited. (59)
As he left the room, Lord Henry’s heavy eyelids drooped, and he began to think. Certainly few people had ever interested him so much as Dorian Gray (61)
To be in love is to surpass one’s self. (71)
Prince Charming, my wonderful lover, my god of graces. (71-72)
Yet, when her arms were flung round his neck, and her fingers strayed through his hair, he softened, and kissed her with real affection. There were tears in his eyes as he went downstairs. (74)
He was flushed with excitement and pleasure, and looked extraordinarily handsome. (79)
When we are happy we are always good, but when we are good we are not always happy. (82)
‘To be good is to be in harmony with one’s self,’ he replied, touching the thin stem of his glass with his pale, fine-pointed fingers. ‘Discord is to be forced to be in harmony with others. One’s own life – that is the important thing. (82)
was beaming from ear to ear with an oily, tremulous smile (85)
The girl smiled. ‘Dorian,’ she answered, lingering over his name with long-drawn music in her voice, as though it were sweeter than honey to the red petals of her mouth (90)
She was transfigured with joy. An ecstasy of happiness dominated her. (90)
He flung himself down on the sofa, and turned away his face. ‘You have killed my love,’ he muttered. (91)
A low moan broke from her (92)
The air was heavy with the perfume of the flowers, and their beauty seemed to bring him an anodyne for his pain. (93)
listlessly (10)
There is a luxury in self-reproach. When we blame ourselves we feel that no one else has a right to blame us. (100)
but one should never remember its details. Details are always vulgar.’ (105)
There was a silence. The evening darkened in the room. Noiselessly, and with silver feet, the shadows crept in from the garden. The colours faded wearily out of things. (107)
to be shut out from the sunlight that had so often touched to brighter gold the waving wonder of its hair? (109)
Nay, without thought or conscious desire, might not things external to ourselves vibrate in unison with our moods and passions (110)
speaking very slowly, and with a strained touch of pain in his voice (112)
I am what I am. There is nothing more to be said (114)
There were beads of perspiration there. He felt that he was on the brink of a horrible danger. (116)
‘I see you did. Don’t speak. Wait till you hear what I have to say. Dorian, from the moment I met you, your personality had the most extraordinary influence over me. I was dominated, soul, brain, and power by you. You became to me the visible incarnation of that unseen ideal whose memory haunts us artists like an exquisite dream. I worshipped you. I grew jealous of every one to whom you spoke. I wanted to have you all to myself. I was only happy when I was with you. When you were away from me you were still present in my art. . . . Of course I never let you know anything about this. It would have been impossible. You would not have understood it. I hardly understood it myself. I only knew that I had seen perfection face to face, and that the world had become wonderful to my eyes – too wonderful, perhaps, for in such mad worships there is peril, the peril of losing them, no less than the peril of keeping them. . . . Weeks and weeks went on, and I grew more and more absorbed in you. Then came a new development. I had drawn you as Paris in dainty armour, and as Adonis with huntsman’s cloak and polished boar-spear. Crowned with heavy lotus-blossoms you had sat on the prow of Adrian’s barge, gazing across the green turbid Nile. You had leant over the still pool of some Greek woodland, and seen in the water’s silent silver the marvel of your own face; and it had all been what art should be –unconscious, ideal, and remote. One day – a fatal day, I sometimes think – I determined to paint a wonderful portrait of you as you actually are, not in the costume of dead ages, but in your own dress and in your own time. Whether it was the Realism of the method, or the mere wonder of your own personality, thus directly presented to me without mist or veil, I cannot tell. But I know that as I worked at it, every flake and film of colour seemed to me to reveal my secret. I grew afraid that others would know of my idolatry. I felt, Dorian, that I had told too much, that I had put too much of myself into it. Then it was that I resolved never to allow the picture to be exhibited. You were a little annoyed; but then you did not realize all that it meant to me. Harry, to whom I talked about it, laughed at me. But I did not mind that. When the picture was finished, and I sat alone with it, I felt that I was right. . . . Well, after a few days the thing left my studio, and as soon as I had got rid of the intolerable fascination of its presence it seemed to me that I had been foolish in imagining that I had seen anything in it, more than that you were extremely good-looking and that I could paint. Even now I cannot help feeling that it is a mistake to think that the passion one feels in creation is ever really shown in the work one creates. Art is always more abstract than we fancy. Form and colour tell us of form and colour – that is all. It often seems to me that art conceals the artist far more completely than it ever reveals him. (117-118)
* <3 I think this is the passage that got censored. I am not sure. ♥️
‘Well, perhaps you are right. And now good-bye, Dorian. You have been the one person in my life who has really influenced my art. Whatever I have done that is good, I owe to you. Ah! you don’t know what it cost me to tell you all that I have told you.’
‘My dear Basil,’ said Dorian, ‘what have you told me? Simply that you felt that you admired me too much. That is not even a compliment.’
‘It was not intended as a compliment. It was a confession. Now that I have made it, something seems to have gone out of me. Perhaps one should never put one’s worship into words.’
‘It was a very disappointing confession.’
‘Why, what did you expect, Dorian? You didn’t see anything else in the picture, did you? There was nothing else to see?’ (119)
Lol what? Rude! I thought what Dorian said here was so rude because Basil poured his heart out to him and Dorian is not impressed and I'm like really?! XD
cried the lad, with a ripple of laughter. (120)
On one occasion he took up the study of jewels, and appeared at a costume ball as Anne de Joyeuse, Admiral of France, in a dress covered with five hundred and sixty pearls. (138)
Okay, so I know that Dorian is taking on multiple interests here, but reading about every single detail about specific jewels from different time periods is like reading a history textbook.
Yet he was afraid. Sometimes when he was down at his great house in Nottinghamshire, entertaining the fashionable young men of his own rank who were his chief companions, and astounding the county by the wanton luxury and gorgeous splendour of his mode of life, he would suddenly leave his guests and rush back to town to see that the door had not been tampered with, and that the picture was still there. What if it should be stolen? The mere thought made him cold with horror. Surely the world would know his secret then. Perhaps the world already suspected it. (144)
I think Dorian is paranoid here.
tædium vitæ (148)
My physical book has a footnote on this page that says that this word means life-weariness in Latin. I also want to add that I think that the way that the a and e looks so cool and interesting.
For a few seconds he stood bending over the balustrade, and peering down into the black seething well of darkness. (163)
You and I are what we are, and will be what we will be. As for being poisoned by a book, there is no such thing as that. Art has no influence upon action. It annihilates the desire to act. It is superbly sterile. The books that the world calls immoral are books that show the world its own shame. That is all. But we won’t discuss literature. (224)
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| This is my library book. |
This is a Sister Summer Book Club choice. I will be reading it for the second time with Ale. I borrowed the 20th chaptered version so Ale can read from my personal copy. This book is so small and cute! It's like a bible book!
This will be the eighth book from our Sister Book Club.
So my ideas for this book session was as follows.
. Besides, each time that one loves is the only time one has ever loved. Difference of object does not alter singleness of passion. It merely intensifies it.
“It has been a charming evening, and we must end it charmingly” (272).
I thought that the ending was really sad because he thought he was going to be good again, but ended up being alone and being the cause of his own death.
Breakfast at Tiffany's and Three Stories by Truman Capote
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