#basil hallward you were too good for this world

[cvmcicle]

reading the picture of dorian gray rn, where my niche gang at

[titan-god-helios]

i’m so fucking done y’all i HATE loving books whilst being audhd cause here’s what the majority of my reading sessions go like: - hyperfocus. i finish a book the width of my arm in a single night and end up collapsing in class the next day because i got no sleep

- chill reading, until The Sound comes in. The Sound could be a person, a youtube video someone else is watching, an outside noise, an ad in the middle of my music and so on. after The Sound appears all focus is lost and the reading session is ruined - desperately trying to read but nothing is right. there is a bright or cool toned light, a sound or a lack of sound, my clothes are weird, there is no sitting position that is right, there is a weird taste in my mouth and my eyes are slowly dying. my brain is racing and making too much internal noise and i simply cannot focus for the life of me. at all. not even for a sentence. often, this happens suddenly in the middle of a previously good reading session and my brain turns off at this point - brain is too slow to read and would rather disassociate. sometimes you even get bonus trauma flashbacks or embarrassment flashbacks as a treat !! - brain is too fast and excited meaning my eyes skip entire paragraphs and i miss very important pieces of information, making me slow my roll and go back and read the boring monologue of text before the Exciting Part

AND THE DIFFICULTY OF READING VARIES WITH THE TYPE OF BOOK TOO. for example, if it’s a modern book/written recently (meaning from 1970s - present day) it is more common to enter a hyperfocus reading session than the other types. if it’s a classic or older book with slightly different writing styles, it is impossible to have a hyperfocus session because now my brain must analyse the words and stop to look up new words.

the worst thing about this ? i LOVE classics. i love all the fancy words and the different sentence structures and the vivid descriptions that the authors poured their heart and souls into. i love the characters and the unique influences on their personalities that come from being written in a different time. i adore analysing meanings and picking apart phrases and words and characters and plots. but i cannot ever focus on it for more than maybe half an hour or an hour, reading painstakingly slowly for my standards and taking all the immersion out of the reading experience because i have to stop to process the information, meaning i am me in the real world. i am not in their world, with the characters. and it makes me want to SCREAM.

the worst worst worst part ??? on the extremely rare occasion i do have a good reading session with a classic, i am always, without fail, interrupted by someone talking to me, making me pause my music and immersion for whatever remark they feel they have to make over and over again until i feel like ripping their face off because SCREW YOU I JUST GOT TO ENJOY THIS BEAUTIFUL PIECE OF LITERATURE WITH ALL THE PRETTY WORDS AND YOU RUIN IT WITH TELLING ME THE BUS ROUTES TO SCHOOL ?? THE SAME BUS ROUTES I TAKE BY MYSELF ALREADY AND HAVE BEEN TAKING FOR AT LEAST FOUR WEEKS BEFOREHAND ???????? SCREW YOU >:(

[rose-tea-and-strawberries]

Trey: *Trying to explain Riddle is that way because of his mom*

Me: Give me a minute as I pull up my ‘Trauma Doesn’t Excuse Sh*t Behavior’ PowerPoint.

Say it with me, everyone: an explanation is not an excuse 😊

You know, the other day I was watching one of Ryan George's Pitch Meetings and when Producer Guy asked Writer Guy how the audience would root for the villain of the franchise and the response was "he's handsome" which basically explains most people's reactions to fictional men.

Prepare for incoming rant that has little to do with the ask

This probably might come as a shock because one of the main appeal of twst would be the whole villainous aspect/Disney Villain fanbase but I don't really like villains that much, at least, not romantically. Like don't get me wrong, I think that they're incredible characters and it would be so fun to sit down with one and have a conversation with one. Villain songs are so fun (I was literally singing ‘This Day Aria’ to myself the other day I haven’t heard that song in like a decade) and you can tell that that characters like Scar or Hades or Shere Khan or Jafar or Maleficent are having so much fun being deliciously evil and even the more serious, complex ones like Loki or Frollo are fun to pick apart so yeah I understand the hype. I just always rooted for the heroes and I guess heroic characters have always been more my type.

My mother absolutely loves Erik Destler and is forever salty that Christine chose Raoul (despite my many many attempts at arguing why Raoulstine is the superior couple - smol primary school me could not understand why my mum liked the chandelier dropper and was deeply concerned), my best friend has been in love with Heathcliffe since we were eleven, and my little sister has literally told me that her type of fictional men are the toxic red flags (not exactly word for word but she did explain why she likes bad boys over good boys when I was complaining about how my type (wholesome soft boys) always get sidelined for the arrogant, snarky bad boys - we're also very diametrically opposed on our views of friends to lovers (my s++ tier all time favourite and her loathing) vs enemies to lovers (I can't really stand it - Pride and Prejudice is the only exception - and that's literally all she consumes) so that might also be a reason).

Like, I understand the appeal of a Byronic hero (Mr Darcy has far too much power) - a closed off, broody man that hates everything but you? And will burn down the world to keep you warm? I can respect that there are people who dig that. But their not really for me.

The mild bout of insanity thirteen year old me had where I spent two months attracted to Edward Rochester is an outlier and should not have been counted (though that was during my wattpad phase so...)

But I can admit that I have yet to shake off my feelings for Dr Henry Jekyll, Victor Frankenstein and Dorian Gray (though to be fair, Mr Gabriel John Utterson the lawyer and cinnamon roll artist boy Basil Hallward do own my heart). And yes, Jeremy Jordan did make me question my morality as he did make my feelings for Light Yagami be too positive to be sane for a brief moment (Touta Matsuda is still my man, don't worry). But apart from them, literally all of my faves are what you'd call your traditional, morally upright heroes.

Basically what I'm saying is that my perception might be skewed because I've never had the whole 'villains are cooler' mindset when it came to stories. Yes, I love the villains as characters but I always liked their heroic foils more (goodness is just so attractive to me). You get lots of amazing heroic protagonists that have horribly tragic backstories and they're the ones I always fall for because the idea of being a kind sweetheart despite the world being anything but is just *chef's kiss* that's a kind of strength that's so swoon-worthy.

I guess that's why it's harder for me to look past the characters' actions in twst is because, well, they chose to do everything they did. They made a conscious choice to be terrible, despite understanding the consequences. Riddle may have been brainwashed into becoming a tyrant by his mother but he still admitted that he knew he was being horrible - he understands the concept of morality, of good and bad, and he willingly and deliberately did everything he did.

I suppose this text post I found on Pinterest would explain my point better:

[dathen]

19th Cent Meow Meow Bracket: Round 2!

And we’re on to the next round!!  The results were full of surprises, with some unforeseen favorites and close calls.  

As promised, my favorite tags on each bracket (winners bolded):

Jack Seward vs. The Creature

Body type diversity amongst meow meows!  Don’t worry, Jack, crumpling like wet paper just raises your meow meow points in the future.

Penclosa vs. Jekyll

The rallying cry of Meow Meow Lovers everywhere!  Rattle that pringles can away, my friend!

Inspector Lestrade vs. Inspector Fix

Lestrade may have won by a large margin, but voters of all sides acknowledge that both Inspectors were excessively pathetic.

Captain Nemo vs. Erik

THE SPIRIT OF THE BATTLE SUMMARIZED!  Remember these words, all, when you choose your next votes!

Basil Hallward vs. Griffin

One cannot truly understand how soggy and pathetic a character can get until one reads The Invisible Man.  But voters went with “did nothing wrong ever” over “pathetic and soggy atrocities” today--will the cinnamon roll too good for this world continue this winning streak?

THE BEETLE!! vs. Victor Frankenstein

The loyalty!! Don’t worry, friend, one day Theb will trample a girlboss poll.

Captain Ahab vs. Edward Hyde

Whale Facts = Good for meow meow points!  I confess we considered the Whale Facts King Ishmael for this poll due to his cantankerous nature, but the consensus was that he was too low on atrocities.  

Renfield vs. Robert Holt

NO WAIT STOP MY BAD please don’t have Canonically Beefy Renfield engage in fisticuffs against our “will die if you breathe on him too hard” clerk!!

And now for some silly little stats because I love numbers:

Most Votes:  The Renfield vs. Robert Holt bracket, with 483!

Curious Bystander Award:  17% of voters in the Inspector vs. Inspector poll just wanted to observe the duel of the incompetents.

Strong Feelings:  All but 3% championed a meow meow in Jack vs. Creature! 

Narrowest win:  Frakenstein’s Creature won with the narrowest lead over Jack Seward, at 9%

Most Brutal Landslide:  Edward Hyde was as unrestrained as ever with his 61% lead over the perhaps-too-mysterious Miss Penclosa.

The next round of polls will be up shortly!

[cogito-dreams]

How did Basil create the mirror I cannot be teased like this

WONDERFUL QUESTION THANK YOU FOR ASKING

this is already getting long so im gonna put it under a read more LOL

allow me to give some context and talk about basil even more than ive been asked for regarding basils origins! for starters, basil originates from The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde, named after none other than Basil Hallward from the novel. In the original, it's heavily implied (honestly it's just text its not even subtext please go read picture of dorian gray its wonderful) that basil is absolutely in love and head over heels for the titular dorian, and paints the titular picture of said titular dorian. now (spoilers for a 150 year old book) this portrait basil painted is... pretty odd, and either because of the amount of himself and his love for dorian that he put into the portrait OR because of a wish dorian made that he would always stay young and beautiful, the portrait winds up looking more old and cruel etc etc as dorian goes down his path of depravity etc etc. basil had made many portraits of dorian before this, but none quite as successful (he'd tried to paint his muse in other styles, but this portrait in particular came about when he finally tried painting dorian exactly as he is), and none of his later portraits were as enchanting either. more things happen to basil later on in the book, but i'll leave that for another post because then i'd have to get into some content warnings because it gets A Little Fucked Up.

so! how does this translate into the world of project moon and specifically limbus company, you ask? great question!

essentially, basil is consistently putting too much of both himself and his subject into all of his paintings. i'm stretching the worldbuilding a little bit here so its not Really super canon compliant, but we know that abnormalities dont just come from people, they can be made like the tool abnormalities! so essentially, in his quest to create this perfect portrait of dorian, basil inadvertently created a few other abnormalities along the way. this includes the Portrait of Another World we find in Lobotomy Corporation, which could in itself have initially been inspired by the same novel that basil is from!

the limbus!dorian to go with my basil is... considerably fucked up in a lot of ways, in particular how he interacts with basil, so while basil was painting dorian their conversations wandered in sometimes pretty messed up directions. while painting the portrait of another world, they discussed what it would be like to never feel pain and never suffer hardship, and basil (a little more down-to-earth than the then-naive dorian) understood that suffering would never really go away, it would just be someone else suffering. that idea is where the portrait of another world started getting its abnormality characteristics, and the reason that the painting is unfinished - and therefore open for people to put themselves into, as we see in lobotomy corporation - is because basil would up growing too upset with the topic (thanks to some needling from lord henry wotton, who i havent yet discussed but the characters im adapting from the novel for basils canto need a whole post of their own) and never actually wound up painting dorian into the portrait. which is probably pretty good, because then we'd have TWO abnormality paintings centered around dorian, and frankly he's gotten way too much power from just the one.

all in all, it's probably for the best that basil quit painting, even if he still doesn't know quite the extent of what he accidentally created.

[hergan416]

Chapter 7 - What Does Art Say About the Artist?

Chapter 7 is where Dorian Gray gets Basil to not look at the painting by pretending that he saw Basil's secret in the painting instead of his own.

It's a stroke of luck, but also one that results in Basil confessing to Dorian Gray.

In the manuscript I'm reading, this confession is at its most explicit. It's gorgeous, and I could feel Basil's feelings in it. Just really gorgeous prose.

But what I find most interesting is not the confession itself. It's this bit afterwards.

"Well, after a few days, the portrait 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 said 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 more abstract than we fancy. Form and colour tell us form and colour, that is all. It often seems to me that art conceals the artist far more completely than it ever reveals him."

Basil stops looking at his painting and where his first instinct was "God I love Dorian Gray and anyone looking at this painting will know as soon as they look at it," to "must have been imagining it. Art is just art after all."

It's a really interesting discussion. What does art say about the artist? Does it reveal him? Or not?

The people trying Oscar Wilde for gross indecency certainly thought that the story indicted him for the crime. I'm not an artist, and I don't study art, so I can't necessarily relate to Basil (or Wilde) on that subject, but I do write.

I can't say I'm on par with Wilde or any other published author, certainly not a published author worthy of being taught in schools. And certainly, as a fan writer I am more likely to write what I enjoy, regardless of form or artistic style, which is to say that I do very little to hide myself in my writing.

But even then, there is a dichotomy between "what you can tell about me as a person because of my writing" and "what you can tell about my literary preferences because of my writing." Am I writing about this because I know something on the topic? Or because I'm having fun thinking about what it would be like? Or because I enjoy the concept of dramatic irony, or character-driven story, or tragedy, or third person limited narration? How can you tell the difference?

Wilde is quoted as having said he that put too much of himself in The Picture of Dorian Gray. I feel like in this moment he is speaking through Basil Hallward. Over his life, Wilde's thesis on art could be boiled down to Théophile Gautier's (translated) phrase "art for art's sake." Wilde defended a position of total separation of art and artist, that art was it's own thing, entirely separate from the one who created it. The form of the art was all that mattered, not something such as authorial intent.

But here this is drawn into question by Basil, whose fears about being "found out" because of his art seem at this point in time to be founded in reality. Dorian Gray found out, didn't he? (Of course, the reader knows that's not true. Something entirely different is happening with the painting. This certainly supports Wilde's point.)

I think the reality is that both are true. The author cannot write and the painter cannot paint too far outside their own view of the world. But their view of the world is larger than themselves. The elements they employ are larger than those that touch their own lives. You cannot sever the art from the artist; there will always be their subconscious biases there, and these things will be especially apparent to the artist. But, the artist is not all there is to the finished art.

One of my favorite fanfiction authors often quotes Louise Rosenblat: "A story's just ink on a page until a reader comes along to give it life." Once you have stepped back from a work and let it be seen, the author isn't the only one engaging in the work. The reader, the viewer-- they bring their own biases and interpretations, and the creator doesn't have any control over that. At that point, the work is collaborative between the reader and the writer, the viewer and the artist.

I really like thinking about writing this way. It's bigger than any one person. As much as it might be a window into the author's soul, that window is so old that the glass has started to pile at the bottom of the pane, and the glass has greened, and so the view is distorted, and the reader has to make their own assumptions about what the things they are seeing mean. So, what they see might be the author's intent, or it might not be.

Reading Wilde over a century after the work was written, I bring my own set of biases and assumptions to my experience reading his writing that he could never have predicted. My experience with this writing is going to be different than the experience of his contemporaries who might better understand, for instance, the lexicon of double meanings and innuendos that might describe homosexuality in Victorian England. There's only so much annotations can do to express the meaning of these phrases. The reaction isn't visceral in the way it is when I read works from my contemporary writing community.

But I can empathize with this quandary. With wrestling with it. What does my art say about me? And where does it stop speaking? I can't say I know the answer.

[2tired2study]

hi! i’ve recently finished the picture of dorian gray so let’s go over my favorite quotes (in order from the ones that appear in the book first to last)

if they know nothing of victory, they are at least spared the knowledge of defeat

being natural is simply a pose, and the most irritating pose i know

and as for believing things, i can believe anything, provided that it is quite incredible

when our eyes met, i felt that i was growing pale. a curious sensation of terror came over me. i knew that i had come face to face with someone whose mere personality was so fascinating that, if i allowed it to do so, it would absorb my whole nature, my whole soul, my very art itself

he, too, felt that we were destined to know each other

laughter is not at all a bad beginning for a friendship, and it is by far the best ending for one

a man cannot be too careful in the choice of his enemies

i like persons better than principles, and i like persons with no principles better than anything else in the world

every day. i couldn’t be happy if i didn’t see him every day. he is absolutely necessary to me

he is all my art to me now

it is only the intellectually lost who ever argue

and the mind of a thoroughly well-informed man is a dreadful thing

there is no such thing as a good influence, mr gray. all influence is immoral; immoral from the scientific point of view

he becomes an echo of someone else’s music

but the bravest man among us is afraid of himself

nothing can cure the soul but the senses, just as nothing can cure the senses but the soul

some day, when you are old and wrinkled and ugly, when thought has seared your forehead with its lines, and passion branded your lips with its hideous fires,you will feel it, you will feel it terribly

man is many things, but he is not rational

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

behind every exquisite thing that existed, there was something tragic

there was something fascinating in this son of love and death

really! and where do bad americans go to when they die?... they go to america

well, the way of paradoxes is the way of truth

all i want now is to look at life. you may come and look at it with me, if you care to

punctuality is the thief of time

it is only the sacred things that are worth touching

when one is in love, one always begins by deceiving ones self, and one always ends by deceiving others

there is always something infinitely mean about other peoples tragedies

how different he was now than the shy frightened boy he had met in basil hallwards studio! his nature had developed like a flower, had borne blossoms of scarlet flame. out of its secret hiding-place had crept his soul, and desire had come to meet it on the way

it is personalities, not principles, that move the age

people are very fond of giving away what they need most themselves

he lives the poetry that he cannot write. the others write the poetry that they dare not realize

human life—that appeared to him the one thing worth investigating

to note the curious hard logic of passion, and the emotional coloured life of the intellect—to observe where they had met, and where they separated, at what point they were in unison, and at what point they were at discord—there was a delight in that! what matter was the cost? one could never pay too high a price for any sensation

with his beautiful face, and his beautiful soul, he was a thing to wonder at. it was no matter how it all ended, or was destined to end. he was like one of those gracious figures in a pageant or a play, whose joys seem to be remote from one, but whose sorrows stir ones sense of beauty, and whose wounds are like red roses

the senses could refine, and the intellect could degrade

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

it often happened that when we thought we were experimenting on others we were really experimenting on ourselves

the joy of a caged bird was in her voice

she was free in her prison of passion

i love him because he is like what love himself should be.

he was like a common gardener walking with a rose

he had the dislike of being stared at, which comes on geniuses late in life and never leaves the commonplace

to be in love is to surpass ones self

my wonderful lover, my god of graces

i wish i had, for as sure as there is a god in heaven, if he ever does you any wrong, i shall kill him

whenever a man does a thoroughly stupid thing, it is always from the noblest motives

i don’t want to see dorian tied to some vile creature, who might degrade his nature and ruin his intellect

we are not sent into the world to air our moral prejudices

and unselfish people are colourless. they lack individuality

you are much better than you pretend to be

of course, it is sudden—all really delightful things are

he is not like other men. he would never bring misery upon any one. his nature is too fine for that

but i am afraid i cannot claim my theory as my own. it belongs to nature, not to me

no civilized man ever regrets a pleasure, and no uncivilized man ever knows what a pleasure is

there was a gloom over him

he felt that dorian gray would never again be to him all that he had been in the past

any one you love must be marvellous

it is not good for ones morals to see bad acting

there are only two kinds of people who are really fascinating—people who know absolutely everything, and people who know absolutely nothing

you taught me what reality really is

you had made me understand what love really is

you are more to me than all art can ever be

there is always something ridiculous about the emotions of people whom one has ceased to love

a faint echo of his love came back to him

we live in an age when unnecessary things are our only necessities

when we blame ourselves, we feel that no one else has a right to blame us

i cant bear the idea of my soul being hideous

one can always be kind to people about whom one cares nothing

nothing makes one so vain as being told that one is a sinner

it is only shallow people who require years to get rid of an emotion

you were the most unspoiled creature in the whole world

of you wish me never to look at your picture again, i am content. i have always you to look at

from the moment i met you, your personality had the most extraordinary influence over me. i was dominated, soul, brain, and power, by 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

i only knew that i had seen perfection face to face

i grew more and more absorbed in you

you are made to be worshipped

in every pleasure, cruelty has its place

but it was to teach man to concentrate himself upon the moments of life that is itself but a moment

out of the unreal shadows of the night comes back the real life that we had known. we have to resume it where we left off, and there steals over us a terrible sense of the necessity for the continuance of energy in the same wearisome round of stereotyped habits, or a wild longing, it nat be, that our eyelids might open some morning upon a world that had been refashioned anew in the darkness for our pleasure, a world in which things would have fresh shapes and colours, and be changed, or have other secrets, a world in which the past would have little or no place, or survive, at any rate, in no conscious form of obligation or regret, the remembrance of even joy having its bitterness and the memories of pleasure their pain

yet, as had been said of him before, no theory of life seemed to him to be of any importance compared with life itself

he saw that there was no mood of the mind that had not its counterpart

art, like nature, has her monsters

is insincerity such a terrible thing? i think not. it is merely a method by which we can multiply our personalities

and mind you don’t talk about anything serious. nothing is serious nowadays. at least nothing should be

i am tired of myself tonight. i should like to be someone else

sin is a thing that writes itself across a mans face

you forget that we are in the native land of the hypocrite

that is the reason why i want you to be fine. you have not been fine

you have a wonderful influence. let it be for good, not for evil

i wonder do i know you? before i could answer that, i should have to see your soul

my god! don’t tell me that you are bad, and corrupt, and shameful

so you think it is only god who sees the soul, basil? draw that curtain back, and you will see mine

each of us has heaven and hell in him, basil

you are the one man who is able to save me

don’t speak about those days, dorian—they are dead... the dead linger sometimes

lord henry, i am not at all surprised that the world says that you are extremely wicked

life is a great disappointment

i like men who have a future and women who have a past

moderation is a fatal thing. enough is as bad as a meal. more than enough is as good as a feast

you always want to know what one has been doing. i always want to forget what i have been doing

his soul, certainly, was sick to death

he was prisoned in thought. memory, like a horrible malady, was eating his soul away

ones days were too brief to take the burden of another’s errors on ones shoulders

it is a sad truth, but we have lost the faculty of giving lovely names to things

to define is to limit

to be popular one must be a mediocrity

romance lives by repetition, and repetition converts an appetite into an art

i am searching for peace

the appeal to antiquity is fatal to us who are romanticists

sick with a wild terror of dying, and yet indifferent to life itself

horror seemed once more to lay its hand upon his heart

how terrible it was to think that conscience could raise such fearful phantoms

he had a wild adoration for you and that you were the dominant motive of his art

when you and he ceased to be great friends, he ceased to be a great artist

if a man treats life artistically, his brain is his heart

art has a soul, but that man had not

the soul is a terrible reality

to get back my youth i would do anything in the world, except take exercise, get up early, or be respectable

but a chance tone of colour in a room or a morning sky, a particular perfume that you had once loved and that brings subtle memories with it, a line from a forgotten poem that you had come across again, a cadence from a piece of music that you had ceased to play—i tell you, dorian, that it is on things like these that our lives depend

life has been your art

the books that the world calls immoral are books that show the world it’s own shame

the world is changed because you are made of ivory and gold. the curves of your lips rewrite history

it was the living death of his own soul that troubled him

as it had killed the painter, so it would kill the painters work, and all that that meant. it would kill the past, and when that was dead, he would be free

[quillsink]

My Review of The Picture of Dorian Gray

Honestly I’ve wanted to do this ever since I finished the book but I kept procrastinating so like here -

My overall rating? Solid 8/10. Pretty good! There was some stuff I didn’t like but overall loved it!

TW - If you’re going to read the book, there is character death, suicide and drug usage so please stay safe and don’t read anything triggering for you

Review is kinda long so under cut :)

Let me get the negative stuff out of the way first. Not gonna lie it was pretty sexist - yes I know it was written in the 1890s but still. All the characters of any importance were male, and honestly I wouldn’t care too much about that if it wasn’t for the fact that all the female side characters were written as insipid, flirty, overly sensitive, unintelligent and attention seeking. Oscar Wilde. My guy.  Please.

Okay, other than that, THIS WAS SO GOOD. So first, about the moral views in the book. I have no clue about the historical context or the influence or how London was at the time and how that played on how Wilde wrote the book but anyways. The main three characters, Lord Henry, Basil Hallward and Dorian Gray have very differing views, and as Dorian’s views and lifestyle change over time it’s clear what the influences are (aggressive coughs LORD HENRY cough cough)

Lord Henry is very hedonistic and pleasure seeking, and pretty immoral. He says things which take a while to wrap your head around but get easier to dissect as you get used to it. The things he says can be very pessimistic of the world, and sometimes pretty mean, but weirdly optimistic as well (okay I suck at describing stuff okay)

When we meet Dorian Gray at twenty odd, he’s as innocent as a six year old and knows nothing of the world. As Lord Henry’s influences and London society get to him, he grows more immoral and evil throughout the course of the book, and watching him change so drastically is interesting.

Basil Hallward has the typical morals which you would expect, to be a good person, etc., but they don’t become so obvious until nearer the middle of the book. He has managed to escape Lord Henry’s influences and strange new ideas, and as Dorian grows more immoral, he tries to make him the innocent boy at twenty he used to be.

Now for the actual y’know PLOT of the book (took me a while lmao). Basil Hallward is a painter, and when he finished painting a portrait of Dorian Gray while Dorian sits for him and hears Lord Henry’s nonsensical and hedonistic views, he wishes impulsively that the portrait would grow old while he would stay beautiful. What he doesn’t expect is that his wish comes true. The portrait grows old and bears the marks of sin and cruelty while he stays as fresh and young as a boy.

What I love is that we rarely learn the reason behind things. Why is the portrait growing old? We don’t know, it just is. Why did Dorian stop being friends with someone? No one knows. What secret was he keeping? No one knows, and that adds so much to the mysterious and fantastical air of the whole book.

Now you’re probably going “Oscar Wilde? Isn’t there gay shit?” and let me tell you - yes. Yes there is gay shit but not as much as you’d expect. Basil’s idolatry and adoration of Dorian is pretty homoerotic (and I did some research and the original manuscript was censored of things the editor considered too gay or immoral) and Dorian’s attachment to Lord Henry can be interpreted as a crush, but it’s mostly that and not very gay. The straight relationships are mostly thrown to the side actually lmao.

So, overall? Pretty sexist, but a good read. Interesting look into the character’s moral views and how that affected friendships, lifestyle and relationships, as well as Dorian’s growing evil over the course of the book. The fantastical element adds to the overall mystery and Dorian’s motives. It’s quite homoerotic but not explicit, and the straight relationships don’t take up much of the spotlight. I highly recommend it!

[terramythos]

TerraMythos 2021 Reading Challenge - Book 10 of 26

Title: The Picture of Dorian Gray (1890) 

Author: Oscar Wilde 

Genre/Tags: Fiction, Gothic Horror, Third-Person, LGBT Protagonist (I... guess) 

Rating: 8/10

Date Began: 4/13/2021

Date Finished: 4/20/2021 

When artist Basil Hallward paints a picture of the beautiful and innocent Dorian Gray, he believes he’s created his masterpiece. Seeing himself on the canvas, Dorian wishes to remain forever young and beautiful while the portrait ages in his stead. The bargain comes true. While Dorian grows older and descends a path of hedonism and moral corruption, his portrait changes to reflect his true nature while his physical body remains eternally youthful. As his debauchery grows worse, and the portrait warps to reflect his corruption, Dorian’s past begins to catch up to him. 

Perhaps one never seems so much at one’s ease as when one has to play a part. Certainly no one looking at Dorian Gray that night could have believed that he had passed through a tragedy as horrible as any tragedy of our age. Those finely-shaped fingers could never have clutched a knife for sin, nor those smiling lips have cried out on God and goodness. He himself could not help wondering at the calm of his demeanour, and for a moment felt keenly the terrible pleasure of a double life. 

Full review, some spoilers, and content warnings under the cut. 

Content warnings for the book: Misogyny (mostly satirical). Racism and antisemitism (not so much). Emotional manipulation, blackmail, suicide, graphic murder, and death. Recreational drug use.

Reviewing a classic novel through a modern lens is always going to be a challenge for me. The world seems to change a lot every decade, let alone every century—whether some canonized classic holds up today is pretty hit or miss (sorry, English degree). And considering the sheer amount of academic focus on classic texts, it’s not like I’m going to have a “fresh take” on one for a casual review. I read and reviewed The Count of Monte Cristo last year, and thought it aged remarkably well over 170+ years.

Somehow I never read Oscar Wilde’s The Picture of Dorian Gray for school. I tried reading it independently in my late teens/early twenties, and honestly think I was just too stupid for it. Needing a shorter read before the next Murderbot book releases at the end of the month, I grabbed Dorian Gray off the shelf and decided to give it another shot. By the end, I was pleasantly surprised how much I liked the book.

I’m actually going to discuss my pain points before I get into what worked for me. The first half of the book is very slow-paced. The Picture of Dorian Gray is famous for… well… the picture. But it isn’t relevant until the halfway point of the novel, when Dorian does something truly reprehensible and finds his image in the picture has changed. There’s a lot of setup before this discovery. The first half of the book has a lot of fluff, with characters talking about stuff that happened off screen, discussing various philosophies, and so on without progressing the story. Some of this is fine, as it establishes Dorian’s initial character so the contrast later is all the more striking. I just think it could have been shorter. I realize this comes down to personal taste.

I’m also torn on the Wilde’s writing style. He’s very clever, and there are many philosophical ideas in his writing that did genuinely made me stop and think. The prose is also beautiful and descriptive; this is especially useful when it contrasts the horror elements of the story. However, there’s a lot of unnatural, long monologue in the story. Not sure if it’s the time period, Wilde’s background as a playwright, or just his writing style in general (maybe all three), but the characters ramble a LOT. My favorite game was trying to imagine how other characters were reacting to a literal wall of text. 

I also feel the need to mention this book has some bigoted content, as implied in my content warnings. The misogyny in the story is satirical; it’s spouted by the biggest tool in the book, Lord Henry, whose whole shtick is being paradoxical. You just need basic critical thought to figure that out. However, some things don’t have that excuse. A minor character in the first half is an obvious anti-Semitic caricature. There’s also some pretty racist content, particularly when Wilde describes Gray’s musical instrument collection. While these are small parts of the book, it’d be disingenuous not to acknowledge them.

All that being said, there were many aspects of the book I enjoyed, particularly in the second half. Wilde does a great job characterizing terrible people who fully believe what they say. Lord Henry is an obvious example, and Dorian follows his lead as the story progresses. One of my favorite bits was after Sibyl’s suicide (which Dorian instigated by being a piece of shit). Dorian is initially shocked, but as he and Lord Henry discuss it, they come to the conclusion that her suicide was a good thing because it had thematic merit. It’s just such a brazen, horrible way to alleviate one’s guilt. 

Dorian also goes to significant lengths to justify his actions. At one point, he murders Basil to keep the portrait a secret. While he briefly feels guilty about this, Dorian grows angry at the inconvenience of having killed this man, supposedly an old friend. He even separates himself from the situation, expressing that Basil died in such a horrible way. Bro, you killed him! It was you! The cognitive dissonance is just stunning. 

It’s also viscerally satisfying to read about Dorian’s downfall as his awful choices catch up to him. Dorian becoming tormented by the portrait is just... *chef’s kiss*. Is it surprising? No, it’s pretty standard Gothic horror fare. But there’s something to be said about seeing a genuinely horrible man finally pay for what he’s done after getting away with it for so long. I wish real life worked that way. 

There’s the picture itself, too. I know it’s The Thing most people know about this novel -- but I just think it’s a cool concept. I like the idea of someone’s likeness reflecting their true self, and the psychological effect it has on the subject. Most of the novel is fiction with realistic horror elements, but I like that there’s a touch of the supernatural thanks to Dorian’s picture. It’s an element I wouldn’t mind seeing in more works. 

It's sad to read Dorian Gray with the context of what happened to Wilde. The homoeroticism in the novel is obvious, but tame compared to works today. Wilde and this book are a depressing case study in how queer people are simultaneously erased and reviled in recent history. Wilde was tortured for his homosexuality (and died from resulting health complications) over 100 years ago, yet the 1994 edition of Dorian Gray I read refers to his real homosexual relationship as a "close friendship". It's an infuriating and tragic paradox. Things have improved by inches, but we still have so far to go.  

As I grow older I find I appreciate classic works more than when I was forced to read them for school. The Picture of Dorian Gray is a gripping Gothic horror story. Some aspects didn't age particularly well, but that's true for almost anything over time. If you're in the market for this kind of book, I do recommend it.  

[starfxckersinc]

DOING THE HARD WORK OF MAKING EVERYONE IN DORIAN GRAY LOOK LIKE A DICK EXCEPTING, WITH LIMITS, DORIAN GRAY

okay so I’ve read The Picture Of Dorian Gray three times and I plan to again after I finish a few more novels, so I consider myself knowledgeable enough both about the book AND about the fandom surrounding it to make this post. This has been kicking around in my head for YEARS, especially after getting into Velvet Goldmine and noting how that fandom treats Brian Slade, who’s basically a modern interpretation of the same character. I know a lot of people are jonesing for me to rag on Basil Hallward and I plan to, so fair warning to those of you who i know are obsessed with him.

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To start, a lot of people see Lord Henry as the only discernible “Villain” in the book(though the book really has no villain) and Basil as the put upon good guy. This description is somewhat fair. Lord Henry contributes a lot of Dorian’s toxic ideas and enables a LOT of his most self centered behavior, not to mention he gives him the book that inspires his worst deeds. He’s the person who makes it clear to him that youth, self gratification, and most importantly, beauty are all that matter in life. Basil, on the other hand, does his best to “counter” these ideas, though I personally would say his idea of countering amounts to nothing but passive aggressive, low energy disdain. Dorian is too wrapped up in Lord Henry to listen to reason, and eventually murders Basil in cold blood, allowing him to achieve a sort of tragic book character aura that makes him sympathetic.

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To put it simply, the general attitude towards these character dynamics is that Lord Henry is the Bad, Basil is the Good, and Dorian could’ve been good if Lord Henry would’ve let him be. I find this interpretation very surface level despite the relatability of Basil Hallward’s homosexual yearning and romantic struggles.

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But before we dissect Basil, let’s dissect his counterpart. Lord Henry, to start, is immediatley established as a vain and flippant dandy(which is true) because of his belief that beauty is the most valuable trait a person can possess. This is the first lesson that he gives Dorian: that his beauty is his power, that his youth is fleeting, and that life will be worthless once he’s lost the ability to appeal physically to others. However, while he is the first to say it frankly enough for Dorian to consciously understand it, he is NOT the first to communicate that to him. He is just one in a long line of many, as is Basil himself.

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Funnily enough, I would argue that of all the adult figures in Dorian’s life, Lord Henry is the MOST supportive of Dorian’s actual person, and I think it’s entirely natural that he became as attached to him as he did and may have less to do with Henry’s good looks and manipulation than we think. Nobody in his immediate circle of friends or family allows him to explore himself or form an opinion about the world that differs from their own- Except for Henry. It’s merely Dorian’s misfortune that the first person he meets who allows him to be a human being is a conceited asshole, but it follows the theme of Dorian’s life, which is that he is the avatar for older and more cowardly men. And in Lord Henry’s eyes, Dorian’s poetential is limitless. He’s happy to give him ideas and let him run wild, but can’t accept the responsibility of teaching him kindness or compassion or self-preservation, because that would make the spectacle less interesting. Lord Henry is using a 19-to-20 year old to live out his fantasy of what he wishes he could do- But he’s not really different from Basil in that respect.

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And now it is time.

Basil Hallward reminds me a lot of myself, so I feel like I understand his motivations. He’s a shy, earnest, secretive artist who doesn’t care much for anything besides doing his work and yearning while looking out over his garden. He’s upset by people like Lord Henry, who are the embodiment of the poet who lives what he cannot write, because he is the opposite: He creates, and therefore doesn’t have to live out, his fantasy worlds. Basil is repressed and mild mannered while Henry, to his intense jealousy, is more attractive, vivacious, and conversationally interesting- Which is most likely why he didn’t want to share him with Dorian, instead of the reason he gave, which was that Dorian’s pure personality would be tarnished. It’s quite obvious Basil has a crush. But I don’t believe he ever loved, or even truly cared for, Dorian himself.

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Allow me to explain: I have a whole blog of random pictures, mainly of other people, that I keep because I find those pictures striking in some sense. I don’t have an aesthetic theme, really: It’s just people who make me feel, or think, or see something a certain way. I have a pregnant wax figurine in there and old pictures of Marilyn Monroe- And I find both creatively interesting because of how they appear to me. What I’m getting at is I think Dorian Gray is to Basil what an art blog is to the average tumblr user. As David Bowie once said, there’s a difference between being in love and going on to love someone; And there is a difference between being fascinated with your muse and actually caring about the person beyond the projection.

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I think it’s extremely telling that before painting his portrait, Basil had an entire notebook dedicated to portraying Dorian as various mythical figures and heroes. I think it’s even more telling that when Basil DOES paint his portrait, he’s ashamed of it because it is a portrait of HIS soul, an admittance of his worship and idolatry. Dorian REPRESENTS something to Basil, and it’s fun to speculate on what: I believe he is the poster boy for all of Basil’s sexual and romantic fantasies, which he obviously finds shameful, woven together with the romantic escapism found in mythology. But it’s obvious from the start that Dorian is Not the virtuous young man that he wants him to be, and that those virtues are simply what Hallward believes Dorian should be like, as opposed to what he actually is.

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This is depressing, but what’s worse is that Dorian is aware of it, which is what actually inspired me to write this post. When he realizes his youth is fleeting, he accuses Basil of the truth, in a heartbreaking scene featuring this quote,

“Dorian Gray turned and looked at him. ‘I believe you would, Basil. You like your art better than your friends. I am no more to you than a green bronze figure. Hardly as much, I dare say.’ The painter stared in amazement. ‘Yes,’ He continued, I am less to you than your ivory Hermès or your silver Faun. You will like them always. How long will you like me? Till I have my first wrinkle, I suppose. I know, now, that when someone loses one’s good looks, whatever they may be, one loses everything. Your picture has taught me that. Lord Henry Wotton is perfectly right. Youth is the only thing worth having. When I find that I am growing old, I shall kill myself.’

Hallward turned pale, and caught his hand. ‘Dorian! Dorian!’ he cried, ‘don’t talk like that. I never had such a friend as you, and I shall never have such another. You are not jealous of material things, are you- you who are finer than all of them!”

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Lord Henry and Basil are nowhere near on the same moral level, but what’s tragic is that they, and everyone else, treat Dorian the same way- As their vicarious vessel. It’s just that Basil’s idea of what Dorian should be is A) Literal sainthood(as evidenced by the above quote), and B) Impossible to live up to, so therefore he seems to be the nicer guy. But it’s cruel to value anyone for what you can get from them, even if that thing is great art.

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In my opinion, the adult figures in Dorian’s life couldn’t give less of a shit about his true nature. His grandfather hated him and wanted nothing to do with him. Lord Henry is interested in seeing how far Dorian would go to do the things he can’t do because of his own cowardice. Basil expects him to be a storybook character, as do most people who came into contact with him. He was right to believe that his looks were the only thing anybody wanted from him because it’s the truth.

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To close, my personal interpretation of Dorian Gray is this: Dorian Gray was a neglected, naive child who became the fancy of two older men, both of whom were only concerned with using him as a fantasy and therefore both corrupted him for their own personal gain. This in no way excuses his actions, but I think it better explains them- And I think it condemns the people who ought to be condemned. Lord Henry was the person who played on his lack of self-worth to manipulate him, but Basil was the person who exacerbated that lack of self-worth in the first place. Basil wasn’t a good mentor(and DID NOT deserve to be his boyfriend). Henry wasn’t a good mentor. There was no good mentor- There was only Dorian, and the simple fact that people weren’t going to love him if he stopped being pretty. The person he became afterwards was someone of his own making- But the initially shy, praise-hungry, warped young boy who felt the need to become that person was both Basil and Henry’s creation.

[rabbitwritesfanfic]

Title: Once Upon a December

Words: 3461

Fandom: The Picture of Dorian Gray

Characters: Dorian Gray, Basil Hallward

Pairing: Dorian/Basil

Comments: I’m back! Complete with a cover and some pseudo-Victorian flair! (I like making quick covers like this too... Maybe I should do that for all my new stuff?) I’ve had this one kicking around in my head for a while now and in the end I liked it enough to share. #BasilDidNothingWrong 

The weather had surely taken a turn for the worst over the last several days. A light dusting of snow was a pleasant departure from the heat of summer, even giving Basil's paintings of the fall a sense of urgency which translated well into more metaphorical readings of his work, but there was quite a difference between knowing that all the vibrant color of the world would soon be lost until the spring and actually seeing the world buried inch by inch in ice.

The artist was working by candlelight when the knocking began. The sound was nearly lost under the howl of the wind and it was several moments before Hallward could be sure he was hearing it at all. Before long, however, the noise grew more persistent. He set his brushes down, and, having long since sent Parker away for the evening, moved to answer the door.

“Who in the world - ” he began but cut himself short upon spying the familiar tangle of blonde curls belonging to his friend. “Dorian!” he cried. “Good heavens, boy, do come in before you freeze! What on earth are you doing out at this hour, in this weather?”

Dorian leaned heavily against the wall just to the side of the door, shaking the snow from his curls. “Oh, it's nothing so terribly serious, Basil,” he said as he got his shaking fingers tangled in his scarf during his attempt to remove it. “The weather must have turned faster than I was expecting.”

“Dorian, I know you do not consider me a fool.”

“Not at all,” the lad replied, seeming faintly shocked.

“Then,” said the artist, draping the boy's scarf over a coat hook to dry after removing it from him, “you must realize how impossible it is to believe you in this state.”

Dorian grew quiet and cast his eyes to the floor. The flecks of snow had melted into dew drops now, sitting precariously in the whirled brushstrokes of his hair, the occasional rogue falling to stain his collar or touch his cheek. Basil wished for his paints nearly as much as he wished to turn himself to water.

“It's really nothing, Basil,” Dorian said, canting his head to the side. “Just another of my moods. I was out walking and lost in my head again, I believe, when the storm began. Thank God I was able to find your door.”

Hallward did not quite believe him. There was something in his dear friend's tone that prevented it, the cadence slightly off, the words a bit strained. He had no desire to fight with him, however, so he instead ushered him back through the house, farther from the chill seeping in around the doors.

It was barely a moment before Dorian flung himself upon the divan, seeming utterly exhausted. He'd left his coat in the hallway and thankfully his clothes seemed relatively untouched by the snow. He rested his head on his arms and spoke with his eyes closed, seeming dreamlike in the light thrown from the fireplace.

“What is it about the cold that drains you so, Basil?”

Rather than respond, the artist, in a strange fit of boldness, moved to sit near the boy, wincing at the chill that clung so stubbornly to Dorian's skin. A few moments drained away before Hallward thought to fetch a heavy blanket from the cabinet. He returned and rather unceremoniously tossed it across the back of the divan before returning to his perch beside Dorian.

“I feel as though you would refuse if I offered you my room for the night and I have neither the strength nor the desire to remove you bodily,” said Basil. Then, “You'll catch your death like this, Dorian – look, you're still shivering!”

To his credit, the boy only huffed a small laugh before curling himself into an even smaller ball. It was around this time that Hallward made a rather inexplicable decision: He crawled onto the divan and pressed himself between Dorian and the back cushions, giving the boy room to stand if he wished. Whatever had taken up residence in Dorian's head was clearly troubling him quite severely, and Basil wasn't keen on making him feel trapped.

Dorian seemed to pay him little mind, turning to rest his head against his friend's shoulder as though there were nothing strange about it in the slightest. Occasionally a small shudder would trace its way down his limbs and the most pathetic whine would clatter against his teeth. Several minutes passed in much the same way as the first one had before either of them spoke.

“There you go again, Basil,” said Dorian.

“What?”

“Staring at me. You do it often, even though that portrait is well and truly finished.” Dorian stretched in what little space remained for him. The worst of the chill looked to have worn off, leaving a faint dusting of pink across his cheekbones. “I should think that you would be quite sick of looking at me by now.”

Basil pressed himself upward, surprised. “Why ever would you think that?” he asked, catching the lad's gaze in the low light thrown from the fire. “Who in his right mind could tire of looking at you?”

Dorian scoffed gently, the sound pushing a few loose strands of gold from his eyes. “Artists,” he said with a fondness that nearly stopped Basil's heart. “I'd think you would have me memorized by now.”

“You are impossible to memorize, Dorian,” said the artist. Had they been chatting under anything approaching normal circumstances, Basil would never have allowed his thoughts to wander like they were, and certainly not where the lad would ever hear them. Some devilish combination of the late hour and the firelight making Dorian even more unearthly than he was before loosened his tongue and Basil found himself speaking. “I may be able to recreate your curls and your eyes and the lines of your face, but the more I look, the more I see. There are things I simply cannot capture: the sound of your voice, your laugh... the way it feels to lie here with you.”

He'd expected Dorian to laugh, light and airy, and brush the small confession away as further evidence of Basil's artistic temperament making him strange. As such, it was no small shock when the man placed a hand over Basil's and simply rested there for several moments, apparently content in the relative warmth of his friend's presence.

Seconds bled into minutes and, seized by a strange rush of bravery, Hallward gently moved to slide his hand from under Dorian's and press his fingers into the man's hair, digits snagging in the curls. The gold wound around his pale skin, glistening in the unsteady light. Basil, in something akin to a trance, trailed the tips of his fingers across the lad's cheek and down his throat to the hollow space between his collarbones.

Dorian stirred at the touch, his eyes fluttering open as though he had been on the edge of sleep just seconds before. Even in this state, the confusion was clear enough in his gaze.

“My apologies, Dorian,” said the artist, withdrawing his hand. “I believe my mind was wandering.”

“It's not as though I mind,” Dorian told him, a softer expression stealing over his features. “I do trust you, you know. You've never been anything but kind to me, Basil. I've no reason to think ill of you.”

A chill curled up Hallward's spine before dripping down to sit in his stomach, heavy and distracting. Surely if Dorian had any sense of his feelings, he would seek to put as much distance between them as possible. The fact that the lad never seemed to realize the extent of his affections only concerned him further. Curious, Basil replaced his hand closer to Dorian's shoulder and, receiving no resistance, trailed it down the man's arm where it rested across his stomach. When Dorian didn't shift away from him, didn't react beyond a small flexing of his fingers and a quick glance at Hallward, the artist pressed his fingers against the slight taper of Dorian's waist.

Dorian shifted against the contact, making a small, startled sound in his throat.

Basil froze. “Now I've gone and upset you,” he said softly, speaking more to himself then to Dorian.

“No, no,” the man responded, just as soft. “Only... You confuse me.”

“Do I?”

“Yes. You claim my friendship then find any possible occasion to set your hands on me. You gaze at me from across the garden like a lover. Anyone may find that confusing.” Dorian parted his lips like he was about to speak again but another shiver knocked the words back down his throat and he closed his teeth with a snap.

Basil hesitated, indecision at war with desire, then carefully wound his arm around Dorian's waist, pulling him closer against the chill. “You perplex me,” he said, the words ringed at the edge with a soft pain. “You ensnare me. I forget your innocence at times, and for that I do apologize, Dorian. You deserve a better friend when I could ever be to you.”

“Innocence?” Dorian repeated before twisting a bit, looking at Hallward in the half-light. “You really must stop treating me like a child, Basil. I'm over twenty years old.”

At this, the painter raised his head a bit, meeting Dorian's gaze, though he didn't dare speak or move beyond that small gesture. Truly, he'd often regarded Dorian with far more romance of feeling than a proper man should give to his friends, but Hallward was nothing if not moral. And Dorian... Dorian was beautiful. It had been rather underhanded to hide him away from others as he worked, but Hallward had been concerned about the influence certain friends of his may have over the lad.

This was commonly where Hallward's thoughts landed, safely separate from Dorian Gray's and content to keep their distance, but that evening he found himself reaching across the rose-twined fence he'd placed between them.

The seconds stretched on and finally Hallward heard himself asking, against any moral impulse that may have remained in him, a question that had been turning in his mind for months now: “Tell me, Dorian,” he said, “have you ever allowed anyone to kiss you? Aside from family, I mean?”

Dorian faltered, casting a long glance at the pair of them as if he'd only just noticed how they must look, lying improperly close in the small space. “No,” said the lad. “Not once.”

Basil swallowed. “Then... would you mind terribly if I were to kiss you?”

The question lingered between them, spoken so softly that Dorian paused as if to be sure he'd heard correctly. Fear sank its claws into Basil's lungs as he waited for the man to laugh, to brush him off, to break the silence somehow. He didn't, however. Instead he simply shook his head, large eyes flicking across Basil's features as though seeing him in a rare moment of clarity.

The painter exhaled in a way that sounded vaguely like a laugh, cracking the still air. The idea of truly laughing, of turning the moment into a small lecture, proof of the innocence Basil had mentioned before, crossed his mind...  until Dorian smiled at the sound. It was a slow, reflexive smile, as though the man were completely unaware of it himself. Basil didn't allow himself the time to think the action through – he simply closed the negligible distance between them to press his lips to Dorian's.

The kiss was quick, utterly chaste, yet Basil's heart was pounding in his ears at a volume sufficient enough to drown out the howl of the wind pressing in on the walls around them. In truth, he didn't hear it at all. Neither the wind nor the dull crackle of the fire pierced those few precious seconds when Dorian – the incalculable, maddening, achingly beautiful creature called Dorian Gray – relaxed against him, warm breath holding the faintest tremor, his right hand pressed firmly against the painter's arm.

Hallward drew back just enough to break their contact, feeling dizzy and light and like it would have been terribly easy for him to cry when Dorian leaned up just a fraction of an inch after him. Even in the low light, it was easy to see how the lad's eyes had changed, going dark and slightly unfocused with the same poison that ran in Hallward's veins.

“Oh, I am sorry, Dorian.” Basil forced the words out in a whisper, the fog lifting from his senses as reality set in again. How could he do this? How could he dare to risk the miraculous friendship he'd inexplicably managed with Dorian up until then? How could he risk marking him like he had?

Dorian blinked up at him for a moment, confusion touching his features. “Whatever for?” he asked and the breathless color of his voice sent a new spike of heat twisting up Basil's spine before pooling in his stomach.

Hallward swallowed hard, hoping it would clear his mind a bit and return his speech to him. Unfortunately, he remained unable to order his thoughts and could only shake his head. Dorian seemed to take his refusal to speak as an invitation to continue his own train of thought.

“Basil, please,” he began, briefly tightening his grip on the man's arm. Something changed between them then and Dorian appeared to sense it because he tipped his head back just an inch or so, playfully defiant. “If you truly cared to apologise for your abysmal moods, you would kiss me again.”

The laugh spilled from Basil's lips before he could think to close his teeth on it. Of course it would seem that simple to Dorian.

“My dear,” he said, the endearment completely unnoticed at first, “you cannot know what the smallest gesture from you can mean to me. Were I truly a moral man, I would never have pressed for anything more than you have already offered me. You turn up on my doorstep in need of shelter and I act as though you were a toy delivered to me. The fact that you've raised no objection to my conduct only proves my point. This is what I mean when I say that I worry for you, Dorian! Just in the course of the last hour, you've allowed me to place my arms around you. You've allowed me to hold you, and now this! I've no right to -”

“- make me happy.”

The small interruption brought Basil up short, stealing any further fight, any building sparks of self-hatred, and effectively drowning them before they could catch. He looked back at Dorian, surprised.

“Yet you do,” the man continued before carefully, deliberately, taking the painter's left hand in his right and interlacing their fingers. “You do make me happy, Basil. Your flattery is excessive and your worldview confuses me at times, but I am rarely so happy as when I'm with you.”

In the silence that followed, something akin to determination clicked into place behind Dorian's eyes and the man leaned up just enough to press his lips to Basil's again, softly, as though sealing some accord between them. The faint contact sent the painter's heart into his ribs again and Basil, too shocked to do much else, fell into the kiss with a rush of desperation.

He felt Dorian scramble to follow his lead, winding his lean arms around Hallward's shoulders and holding on as though he were the only solid thing in the world. The chilled air around them seemed to crackle, charged to the point of breaking. Basil felt it in every nerve.

It was far too cold for this sort of thing, really, so Basil settled for nipping at the warm skin on Dorian's throat, daring to slide his hands under the man's shirt and pull him close, dipping his fingers into the hard arch of his spine. Dorian wound a leg around Basil's as the painter shifted against him, gasping at the friction. Basil kissed him hard then broke away, gently trapping his slim wrists against the divan.

“It would be in your best interest to stop me,” said Hallward, the words faint and trembling.

“That may be,” Dorian whispered, freeing his hands to claw them down the painter's back, nails snagging fabric, sending wicked little sparks across his skin. “But I wish you wouldn't.”

Basil laughed then, breathless, before nuzzling into Dorian's hair. His teeth and tongue found the pulse point in the boy's throat and he was rewarded with a quiet whimper, Dorian letting his head fall back.

“Slowly...” he breathed when the artist shifted to nip at the stripe of exposed skin where his neck and shoulder joined. Basil obeyed, drawing things out, wanting to memorize it all – the feeling of Dorian's heated skin under his hands, the glint of his golden hair in the half-light, the thin thread of tension undercutting his voice, the ragged moans and whines that broke his quiet panting, the way he arched and writhed under Basil's careful touch – and when the wave finally broke, he felt certain he'd never forget the feeling of Dorian's nails biting into his skin, the hitching cry that spilled from kiss-bruised lips, or the way the hard shudder that shook Dorian Gray to the bones seemed the shake his as well.

In the hazy moments that followed, catching their breath between soft kisses, Dorian suddenly wrapped his arms around Basil's shoulders, holding on as though the painter were the only solid thing in the world.

“I... haven't hurt you, have I?” Basil asked, barely cracking the silence, feeling a flicker of the old fear. Wrong and foolish, as always.

But Dorian calmed him quickly. Or rather, he attempted to. The effect was marred somewhat by the fact that Basil could plainly hear the tears in his voice. “No, no,” said the lad. “Never.”

“You're crying, my boy. Why?”

Dorian seemed to choke on the words for a moment before finally forcing them past his teeth. “I... wanted to run.”

“What?”

“Before. Through the storm. I wanted to run with just the clothes on my back. Have a grand adventure. Get away from it all.” Basil almost laughed. He might have if Dorian hadn't continued, “And then I just... wanted everything to stop. I haven't an idea what I might have done if I hadn't found myself back here.”

Basil raised himself just enough to look at his friend (or lover? Could he dare to use such a term?) and found Dorian crying softly against his shoulder. “Well, I'm certainly glad you've removed yourself from this horrid weather,” said the painter, as gently as he could. “But you've said you wanted things to stop.” Dorian nodded. “Whatever for, my dear?”

“I always want to run. Have I never told you? I always want to disappear. I'm distracting and people put little faith in my mind. I'm like a doll to them. If I must be this way, then there's little I would not give to charm my way through the world for a time, flitting from stranger to stranger as nothing more than a story from their travels – the boy on the train, perhaps, or someone glimpsed on the sidewalk of a large city. I may find a new home that way. A safe place to be less than insufferably perfect.”

“Hardly insufferable,” Basil said, noting how Dorian nearly spat the word. “Why have you never traveled, Dorian? You've more than enough for it.”

“That's just it,” said the lad, the strained ache of a particular melancholy lacing his words. “I plan these things, I imagine it all... and then I stop because in all of my daydreams, you're right there at my side.” Dorian paused then to shake his head. “Foolish, isn't it? That anyone but another flighty, naïve soul would run away with me.”

Basil, at a loss for words, settled for pressing a gentle kiss to Dorian's lips, tasting salt on the edges of them, like the sea air clinging to flower petals. “My Dorian,” he whispered. “I would run with you. Anywhere.”

“Don't tease me, Basil.”

“I would hardly dream of it. Where would we go?”

Dorian hesitated before finally beginning to smile. “I had thought of lying low in France for a time.”

Basil found himself grinning at the mere thought of it. “My boy,” said the painter, “I do believe that's a wonderful idea.”

[literearyinpink]

A little Oscar Wilde, shall we...?

The Victorian Bromance: An Exploration of the Man’s World and Homosocial Relationships in Wilde’s The Picture of Dorian Gray

             Oscar Wilde’s The Picture of Dorian Gray recounts the fantastical story of the destruction of one man’s beauty.  In it Dorian, a young man noted for his beauty as well as his infectious personality, finds that he is able to remain young and beautiful while his likeness, a painting of himself composed by a close friend, becomes more and more hideous with each wrongdoing of Dorian.  The demise of Dorian seems to come when he separates himself from his close friends, Lord Henry Wotton and Basil Hallward, revealing Wilde’s idea of the value of friendship over the individual.  At the beginning of the novel, the three men form what many today would call a “bromance:” a close bond between men that exceeds mere friendship, toeing the line of homosexuality without actually crossing over.  Of course, this relationship can be equated to Wilde’s own living choices; he puts a lot of himself in Dorian Gray, too much maybe.  While the bromance is certainly something to be celebrated in the text, Wilde’s own personal turmoil brings the destruction of their friendship, ultimately leading to the demise of Dorian and Wilde’s own destruction, as the book was used to prosecute him in his 1895 trials.  

           Most readers would identify the interaction between Dorian, Lord Henry, and Basil as a homoerotic relationship.  In fact, this feeling and style can be felt from the very beginning as the narrator depicts images of roses and lilacs and “delicate perfumes” in the opening lines; all are very feminine portrayals (Dorian Gray 5).  In his article, Joseph Carroll goes on to explain that “the first several scenes establish its sexual orientation by interweaving four chief elements: images of luxuriant sensuality, an overriding preoccupation with male beauty, the depiction of effeminate mannerisms among the characters, and a perpetual patter of snide remarks that are hostile to women, to marriage, and to sexual fidelity” (Carroll 295).  Of course, the plot itself is overtly heterosexual and there is no explicit scene in which homosexuality is revealed, but the undertones are certainly there. Scenes of Carroll’s “luxuriant sensuality” and “effeminate mannerisms” are too many to number, and purely circumstantial: these ideals are based on perception and do not indefinitely point to homosexuality.  The emphasis on male beauty is a different story.  From the very beginning of the story the audience is told of Dorian Gray’s beauty; not handsomeness or attractiveness, but beauty.  This feminine terminology makes the “love” that Henry and Basil have for Dorian that much more fascinating.  While Henry maintains that he is merely interested in Dorian out of mere curiosity for his personality and character, Basil admits (at least in the 1890 version) that “it is quite true that I have worshipped you with far more romance of feeling than a man usually gives to a friend…I grew jealous of everyone to whom you spoke.  I wanted to have you all to myself.  I was only happy when I was with you” (Dorian Gray 227-8).  Romantic reasons or no, both Basil and Henry worship Dorian, giving him the tools he needs to destroy himself.  By putting Dorian up on a pedestal, they separate Dorian from themselves and lead him on the path to destruction, even helping him along the way; Henry gives him the knowledge that he’ll eventually grow old and ugly that leads him to cling to his image and wish he could trade places with it, and Basil is the one who paints the picture in the first place.  

Wilde himself would probably agree with the adoration of Dorian (which will be discussed further).  In his 1895 trials Wilde describes this type of love as something purely innocent and natural:

The “Love that dare not speak its name” in this century is such a great affection of an elder for a younger man as there was between David and Jonathan, such as Plato made the very basis of his philosophy, and such as you find in the sonnets of Michelangelo and Shakespeare.  It is that deep, spiritual affection that is as pure as it is perfect.  It dictates and pervades great works of art like those of Shakespeare and Michelangelo, and those two letters of mine, such as they are. It is in this century misunderstood, so much misunderstood that it may be described as the "Love that dare not speak its name," and on account of it I am placed where I am now. It is beautiful, it is fine, it is the noblest form of affection.  There is nothing unnatural about it.  It is intellectual, and it repeatedly exists between an elder and a younger man, when the elder man has intellect, and the younger man has all the joy, hope and glamour of life before him.  That it should be so the world does not understand.  The world mocks at it and sometimes puts one in the pillory for it (Testimony of Oscar Wilde).

 This direct quote from Wilde, where he is talking about his own relationship not that of the characters, reveals just how much of himself he put in Dorian Gray, as well as his other works. Wilde’s ideas of friendship found in Dorian Gray can also be seen in his fairy tale, The Devoted Friend, where the cynical water-rat says “I have never been married, and I never intend to be. Love is all very well in its way, but friendship is much higher. Indeed, I know of nothing in the world that is either nobler or rarer than a devoted friendship” (The Happy Prince).  But the over abundance of Wilde’s own beliefs found in the text lead to the tragedy found in the end, a preview of the overwhelming turmoil raging in Wilde.

           Wilde himself states that “[Dorian Gray] contains much of me in it.  Basil Hallward is what I think I am: Lord Henry, what the world thinks of me: Dorian, what I would like to be—in other ages perhaps” (Carroll 290).  As stated above, Wilde idolizes Dorian as well because he is who he would like to be: beautiful and free to be himself, seemingly without a care for the circumstances. In a way, this becomes an experiment for Wilde, a way of seeing how his life would play out if he were to have these advantages.  Of course, he needs something to cover up his “experiment” while also exploring different aspects of himself.  Lord Henry, who he claims to be the public’s perception of him, is a cynical, woman bashing, over opinionated, walking contradiction.  Wilde plays with this a bit, making him satirical in a way.  It is true that “in his own essayistic writings Wilde actually says many of the same things that Lord Henry says.  Lord Henry often sounds like Wilde” (Carroll 298); but there are spots in the text where the two differ in beliefs, like when Henry says “Discord is to be forced to be in harmony with others.  One’s own life—that is the important thing.  As for the lives of one’s neighbors, if one wishes to be a prig or a Puritan, one can flaunt one’s moral views about them, but they are not one’s concern.  Besides, Individualism is really the higher aim” (Dorian Gray 80).  Wilde uses these deficiencies as a way of setting the public right, with the use of his actual self, Basil.  He quickly responds to Henry’s remarks with “But, surely if one lives merely for one’s self, Harry, one pays a terrible price for doing so” (80).  Here, Basil rightfully foreshadows the ending of the novel. Basil remains, in stark contrast to Lord Henry, the voice of reason in the story—though Henry would like to believe he’s the reasonable one, he has no morals to back up his reasonings.  This book often questions the morality of a subject. Though Wilde has stated that he believes in a separation between the artist and morality, he combines the two within Basil, his supposed literary personality.  But Wilde often contradicts himself, and Basil may indeed represent his true self.  With his claim that his relationship with Lord Alfred Douglas was just friendship and his portrayal of the bromance, two members of which are married, Wilde’s ethics can be seen a little more clearly.  While there are certainly homosexual undertones, it is never outright displayed, this may very well speak to a 19th century morality held on Wilde’s count, leaving him incapable of fully broadcasting his lifestyle choices.  

           If Dorian Gray is indeed an experiment to discover the freedom of Dorian’s, then Wilde needs this morality.  Basil is the only one truly capable of stopping Dorian from his downward spiral, but his adoration for Dorian makes him incapable of doing so, and Wilde’s own idealization is reflected here as well.  In the end, the person Wilde wishes he was kills his true self, the self he was killing anyways by denying his sexual identity.  Wilde’s inner turmoil comes to a climax when Dorian stabs the hideous image that used to show his outer beauty; “Dorian loathes himself, but, except by killing himself, he never stops being himself.  Suicide is not a form of resolution.  It is a capitulation to ultimate failure” (Carroll 302).  

           All three of the male characters fail in the end: Lord Henry never really succeeded to begin with, except with filling Dorian’s head with nonsense; Basil is too obsessed with Dorian to do any real good; Likewise, Dorian is too obsessed with himself to see his fatal personality flaws. If these are indeed versions of Wilde’s personality, then it appears there are just too many Wilde’s to succeed. By allowing each to become distinct characters, in his efforts to explore them fully, Wilde loses the bromance, the friendship that would have kept the three in check and maybe saved them all.

 Works Cited and Referenced

Carroll, Joseph. “Aestheticism, Homoeroticism, and Christian Guilt in the Picture of Dorian Gray.” Philosophy & Literature, Vol. 29 No. 2 (Oct2005), p286-304.

“Testimony of Oscar Wilde.” Famous World Trials: The Trials of Oscar Wilde. n.p. n.d. Thurs. 28 May, 2011. <http://law2.umkc.edu/faculty/projects/ftrials/wilde/Crimwilde.html>

 Wilde, Oscar. Letters.  Ed. Rupert Hart-Davis. London: R. Hart-Davis, 1962.

 Wilde, Oscar. The Happy Prince, and Other Fairy Tales. New York: Putnam, 1913.

 Wilde, Oscar. The Picture of Dorian Gray. Ed. Andrew Elfenbein. New York: Pearson Longman, 2007.

[magicalthoughtsendinterriblefics]

Picture Perfect - Request

Requested by anon:  Hi o was wondering if you could do a dean x reader imagine where she's like taking cute polaroids of him and he realises he loves you :)

Pairing: Dean x reader

Word count: 1,682

Warnings: None, I guess.

A/N: Fluffy Dean. I feel like this is too simple and that that’s what gives it the charm I craved for. Let me know what you think! ;)

Enjoy!

“DEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAN!” She cheered, storming inside his room and jumping to his bed.

Dean groaned in response. He had been sleeping until then.

“Wake up, I found something great!” She insisted, trying to tickle him.

Dean extended an arm, wrapped it around her body and pushed her to be by his side.

“Dean!” She squealed and Dean covered her mouth with a heavy hand.

It was weird how his relationship with (Y/N) was.

Of course, they weren’t dating, but they weren’t friends like so neither. What he felt for Charlie was far too different from what he felt for (Y/N). There was obviously something more between them, but Dean wasn’t completely sure what it was.

At first he thought it was mere sexual attraction, but that got discarded when he realized he felt something else and away from his pants. Yes, she could turn him on with the simplest action, but there was also something more.

That’s when he thought he thought of her like a sister, but then on New Year’s Eve he felt the immense need of kissing her – without mentioning the many times he craved to have her physically and emotionally – so that too got discarded.

It ended up in him admitting he liked her. It wasn’t love, just a small need he had developed and that would end when he found the one. However, since he started feeling things for her, every other woman seemed to be less interesting, less beautiful and less funny.

Dean no longer dated anyone else, and he stopped having one night stands. He claimed that it was because he was too old to be fooling around with girls, and that the world needed him to focus, and many other excuses.

It’s not like he didn’t want to fully admit his feelings for (Y/N), but the exact opposite. Dean had grown fond of her – feelings or not – and he knew that if he ended up screwing things up because he confused friendship with love his whole relationship with (Y/N) would be affected. Therefore, he remained quiet about it until he was certain of his true feelings for her.

He had tried contacting Chuck, right after finding out who he truly was, to see if he could give her an answer. But Chuck wasn’t replying, and Dean figured it was because of Amara.

He had also tried contacting a cherub, to see if any of them knew if (Y/N) was his soul mate - or at least who to look for in case it wasn’t (Y/N). Again, he got no reply. The cherubs refused to tell him because he “had to find love on his own.”

“Dean…” She whispered.

“(Y/N).” Dean replied in his morning voice.

“Can you please look at me and the wonderful stuff I found?” She begged. Dean chuckled and opened slowly those gorgeous green eyes that made (Y/N)’s knees tremble.

“Morning.” Dean greeted and (Y/N) gave him a warm smile.

“It’s not morning anymore.” She said, “Good afternoon.”

“Good afternoon.” Dean replied back and nuzzled over her shoulder as he tensed and relaxed his body, trying to find the strength to sit up.

Eventually, he was wide awake.

“Watch this.” (Y/N) beamed and showed him the two Polaroid cameras. Dean and she gave them a close look before Dean suddenly snapped a picture at her.

“You…” She hissed playfully.

“You look great, sweetheart.” Dean complimented as he took the picture out. (Y/N) got her revenge taking a picture of Dean.

-

“Stop!” Dean laughed, “Seriously.”

“You can’t say ‘seriously’ if you’re laughing.” (Y/N) replied playfully as she took yet another picture of him. It was impressive how, in every single shot, Dean looked like a model.

They were still at his room, in his bed, taking Polaroid pictures from one another; or so they were because (Y/N) took control of the situation and Dean had turned into her model. It was a lazy Sunday, and so they weren’t wearing anything special and Dean had a scruffy beard starting to grow, and (Y/N)’s hair was messy. But it didn’t matter, because they wanted to enjoy their time off, and that didn’t include dressing up for an improvised “photo-shoot”.

In the pictures spread all over the bed, Dean noticed how his face had turned from tired to joyful in a matter of minutes, and only because (Y/N) had stormed out of a sudden with old Polaroids she had found God-knows-where.

Well, maybe it was only because (Y/N) had decided to spend her free Sunday with him. Dean enjoyed her company dearly, and he liked it to have her around on days were monsters weren’t something to worry about because, ever time that happened, Dean learned something new about her that made him feel closer to her.

She was also a good confident. Dean had found in her a kind of comfort Sam couldn’t give him, and a shoulder to cry on too. She would never judge him, and she was always willing to listen and, when required, she would give him the best advices.

He cleared his throat and made a serious, yet adorable, face. “Stop,” he said in a low voice.

“Nope,” and so she took another one. “Smile!”

Just when he was about to argue, (Y/N) lifted her gaze from the camera. She was smiling warmly, and her eyes shined like never before. Her hair framed her face perfectly; she had the right colour and the right length. Her nose was scrunched slightly and Dean could’ve sworn she was moving in slow motion.

It was perhaps in that moment that Dean realized that, maybe, he liked her more than he wanted to admit.

Who else would he accept to photograph him? Who else would he smile for? Who else would he wake up for if it wasn’t precisely an emergency? Dean couldn’t think of anyone but (Y/N).

The snap of the camera got him out of the beautiful trance, and her giggles made him smile wider. “That’s the kind of smile I wanted.” She cheered as she shook the photo that had been expelled from the camera.

Dean took it and saw in it the smile of a man in love. He was happy, he was warm and comfortable.  It was in that picture that he truly saw himself, not as the hunter who killed nonchalantly, but as the human who felt like he needed to do so in order to keep innocents safe and sound. It was his proof, a physical proof of the answer he had so religiously looked an answer for.

“If Basil Hallward felt like this when he painted Dorian Gray… I honestly don’t blame him for not wanting the world to see it.” (Y/N) mumbled.

“Such a bookworm.” Dean joked, but he understood perfectly. (Y/N) blushed at his words and took the picture from his hands, gathering the rest of the Polaroid’s pictures she had taken. She walked up from the bed and moved towards the desk. “What will you do to them?”

“I don’t know, but I have a few ideas.” She wiggled her eyebrows flirtingly and placed the pictures inside a metal box she had there.

“Seriously, five minutes ago you were being cute and now you are a perverted.” Dean chuckled, getting up from bed as well.

“What can I say? I’m multi-faceted.” She winked at him.

“I know.” Dean whispered softly. His hands found her waist unconsciously, and before they knew what was going on, Dean was hugging her from behind, resting his face over her shoulder. Meanwhile, (Y/N) continued to arrange the photographs in order.

She had spread the pictures all over the desk, trying to find the proper order.

“I like these two.” (Y/N) said, showing him to similar pictures. One showed her with the camera covering her face, and the other showed Dean in the exact same position. If one looked closely to the reflections on each camera’s lenses, they would’ve known the pictures had been taken at the same time, for they reflected one another.

“Yeah,” Dean said with a raspy tone, “they are awesome.”

“Is there one you’d like to keep?” She inquired softly.

“The one with you holding the camera.” He replied without a second thought. “I keep that, and you keep the opposite.”

“Like a matching bracelet.” (Y/N) giggled.

“Hey,” Dean defended playfully, “it’s more sophisticated than that.”

“Whatever you say, D.” She beamed, handing him the picture and putting the other one apart from the rest.

“What will you do to the others.” Dean asked, turning her around so she was face to face with him.

“I’ll make an album.” She stated.

“Right now?” Dean cocked an eyebrow.

“Maybe…” She chanted. “Why?”

“I kind of realized something… And I want to know if it’s…” He stuttered.

“Dean, you know you can trust me with anything.” She spoke softly, placing a hand over his shoulder.

“Then please don’t kill me.” He begged before pulling her in for a kiss – a chick-flick kind of kiss – that lasted more than he expected but less than he wanted. “I think I’m in love with you, and I know it’s silly but I… I don’t know.” He said after pulling away.

“Did you… realize it now?” She asked breathlessly.

“Yes… No… I mean I kind of knew that but uh… It wasn’t until now that I…” He stopped talking for a second. (Y/N)’s cheeks were blushed and her eyes were wide, but a smile threatened to grow on her face. “I love you.”

“Dean…” She whispered and then kissed him once more.

There were doubts all over their heads. Dean had been a womanizer his whole life, and (Y/N) was a regular girl that just so happened to live with him. They were hunters, people not meant to have a happy, apple-pie life; and they would definitely be considered as each other’s weak points. Yet, there was something that felt just right.

Suddenly Dean’s phone beeped. It was a text message from Chuck. (Y/N) forgot about the kiss and the two of them huddled to read it.

“You’re welcome. ;)”

Masterlist.

Dean Tags: @coffeebreakandwinchesters @oaisara @rdy4thevoid

Supernatural Tags: @dreamingintheimpalawithdean @roseyhxnt @thisisjessicatalking @hotwinchester

[readbookywooks]

As he was sitting at breakfast next morning, Basil Hallward was shown into the room.

“I am so glad I have found you, Dorian,” he said, gravely. “I called last night, and they told me you were at the Opera. Of course I knew that was impossible. But I wish you had left word where you had really gone to. I passed a dreadful evening, half afraid that one tragedy might be followed by another. I think you might have telegraphed for me when you heard of it first. I read of it quite by chance in a late edition of the Globe, that I picked up at the club. I came here at once, and was miserable at not finding you. I can’t tell you how heart-broken I am about the whole thing. I know what you must suffer. But where were you? Did you go down and see the girl’s mother? For a moment I thought of following you there. They gave the address in the paper. Somewhere in the Euston Road, isn’t it? But I was afraid of intruding upon a sorrow that I could not lighten. Poor woman! What a state she must be in! And her only child, too! What did she say about it all?”

“My dear Basil, how do I know?” murmured Dorian, sipping some pale- yellow wine from a delicate gold-beaded bubble of Venetian glass, and looking dreadfully bored. “I was at the Opera. You should have come on there. I met Lady Gwendolen, Harry’s sister, for the first time. We were in her box. She is perfectly charming; and Patti sang divinely. Don’t talk about horrid subjects. If one doesn’t [53] talk about a thing, it has never happened. It is simply expression, as Harry says, that gives reality to things. Tell me about yourself and what you are painting.”

“You went to the Opera?” said Hallward, speaking very slowly, and with a strained touch of pain in his voice. “You went to the Opera while Sibyl Vane was lying dead in some sordid lodging? You can talk to me of other women being charming, and of Patti singing divinely, before the girl you loved has even the quiet of a grave to sleep in? Why, man, there are horrors in store for that little white body of hers!”

“Stop, Basil! I won’t hear it!” cried Dorian, leaping to his feet. “You must not tell me about things. What is done is done. What is past is past.”

“You call yesterday the past?”

“What has the actual lapse of time got to do with it? It is only shallow people who require years to get rid of an emotion. A man who is master of himself can end a sorrow as easily as he can invent a pleasure. I don’t want to be at the mercy of my emotions. I want to use them, to enjoy them, and to dominate them.”

“Dorian, this is horrible! Something has changed you completely. You look exactly the same wonderful boy who used to come down to my studio, day after day, to sit for his picture. But you were simple, natural, and affectionate then. You were the most unspoiled creature in the whole world. Now, I don’t know what has come over you. You talk as if you had no heart, no pity in you. It is all Harry’s influence. I see that.”

The lad flushed up, and, going to the window, looked out on the green, flickering garden for a few moments. “I owe a great deal to Harry, Basil,” he said, at last,–"more than I owe to you. You only taught me to be vain.”

“Well, I am punished for that, Dorian,–or shall be some day.”

“I don’t know what you mean, Basil,” he exclaimed, turning round. “I don’t know what you want. What do you want?”

“I want the Dorian Gray I used to know.”

“Basil,” said the lad, going over to him, and putting his hand on his shoulder, “you have come too late. Yesterday when I heard that Sibyl Vane had killed herself–”

“Killed herself! Good heavens! is there no doubt about that?” cried Hallward, looking up at him with an expression of horror.

“My dear Basil! Surely you don’t think it was a vulgar accident? Of course she killed herself It is one of the great romantic tragedies of the age. As a rule, people who act lead the most commonplace lives. They are good husbands, or faithful wives, or something tedious. You know what I mean,–middle-class virtue, and all that kind of thing. How different Sibyl was! She lived her finest tragedy. She was always a heroine. The last night she played–the night you saw her–she acted badly because she had known the reality of love. When she knew its unreality, she died, as Juliet might have died. She passed again into the sphere of art. There is something of the martyr about her. Her death has all the pathetic uselessness of [54] martyrdom, all its wasted beauty. But, as I was saying, you must not think I have not suffered. If you had come in yesterday at a particular moment,–about half-past five, perhaps, or a quarter to six,–you would have found me in tears. Even Harry, who was here, who brought me the news, in fact, had no idea what I was going through. I suffered immensely, then it passed away. I cannot repeat an emotion. No one can, except sentimentalists. And you are awfully unjust, Basil. You come down here to console me. That is charming of you. You find me consoled, and you are furious. How like a sympathetic person! You remind me of a story Harry told me about a certain philanthropist who spent twenty years of his life in trying to get some grievance redressed, or some unjust law altered,–I forget exactly what it was. Finally he succeeded, and nothing could exceed his disappointment. He had absolutely nothing to do, almost died of ennui, and became a confirmed misanthrope. And besides, my dear old Basil, if you really want to console me, teach me rather to forget what has happened, or to see it from a proper artistic point of view. Was it not Gautier who used to write about la consolation des arts? I remember picking up a little vellum-covered book in your studio one day and chancing on that delightful phrase. Well, I am not like that young man you told me of when we were down at Marlowe together, the young man who used to say that yellow satin could console one for all the miseries of life. I love beautiful things that one can touch and handle. Old brocades, green bronzes, lacquer- work, carved ivories, exquisite surroundings, luxury, pomp,–there is much to be got from all these. But the artistic temperament that they create, or at any rate reveal, is still more to me. To become the spectator of one’s own life, as Harry says, is to escape the suffering of life. I know you are surprised at my talking to you like this. You have not realized how I have developed. I was a school-boy when you knew me. I am a man now. I have new passions, new thoughts, new ideas. I am different, but you must not like me less. I am changed, but you must always be my friend. Of course I am very fond of Harry. But I know that you are better than he is. You are not stronger,–you are too much afraid of life,–but you are better. And how happy we used to be together! Don’t leave me, Basil, and don’t quarrel with me. I am what I am. There is nothing more to be said.”

Hallward felt strangely moved. Rugged and straightforward as he was, there was something in his nature that was purely feminine in its tenderness. The lad was infinitely dear to him, and his personality had been the great turning-point in his art. He could not bear the idea of reproaching him any more. After all, his indifference was probably merely a mood that would pass away. There was so much in him that was good, so much in him that was noble.

“Well, Dorian,” he said, at length, with a sad smile, “I won’t speak to you again about this horrible thing, after to-day. I only trust your name won’t be mentioned in connection with it. The inquest is to take place this afternoon. Have they summoned you?”

Dorian shook his head, and a look of annoyance passed over his face at the mention of the word “inquest.” There was something so [55] crude and vulgar about everything of the kind. “They don’t know my name,” he answered.

“But surely she did?”

“Only my Christian name, and that I am quite sure she never mentioned to any one. She told me once that they were all rather curious to learn who I was, and that she invariably told them my name was Prince Charming. It was pretty of her. You must do me a drawing of her, Basil. I should like to have something more of her than the memory of a few kisses and some broken pathetic words.”

“I will try and do something, Dorian, if it would please you. But you must come and sit to me yourself again. I can’t get on without you.”

“I will never sit to you again, Basil. It is impossible!” he exclaimed, starting back.

Hallward stared at him, “My dear boy, what nonsense!” he cried. “Do you mean to say you don’t like what I did of you? Where is it? Why have you pulled the screen in front of it? Let me look at it. It is the best thing I have ever painted. Do take that screen away, Dorian. It is simply horrid of your servant hiding my work like that. I felt the room looked different as I came in.”

“My servant has nothing to do with it, Basil. You don’t imagine I let him arrange my room for me? He settles my flowers for me sometimes,–that is all. No; I did it myself. The light was too strong on the portrait.”

“Too strong! Impossible, my dear fellow! It is an admirable place for it. Let me see it.” And Hallward walked towards the corner of the room.

A cry of terror broke from Dorian Gray’s lips, and he rushed between Hallward and the screen. “Basil,” he said, looking very pale, “you must not look at it. I don’t wish you to.”

“Not look at my own work! you are not serious. Why shouldn’t I look at it?” exclaimed Hallward, laughing.

“If you try to look at it, Basil, on my word of honor I will never speak to you again as long as I live. I am quite serious. I don’t offer any explanation, and you are not to ask for any. But, remember, if you touch this screen, everything is over between us.”

Hallward was thunderstruck. He looked at Dorian Gray in absolute amazement. He had never seen him like this before. The lad was absolutely pallid with rage. His hands were clinched, and the pupils of his eyes were like disks of blue fire. He was trembling all over.

“Dorian!”

“Don’t speak!”

“But what is the matter? Of course I won’t look at it if you don’t want me to,” he said, rather coldly, turning on his heel, and going over towards the window. “But, really, it seems rather absurd that I shouldn’t see my own work, especially as I am going to exhibit it in Paris in the autumn. I shall probably have to give it another coat of varnish before that, so I must see it some day, and why not to- day?”

“To exhibit it! You want to exhibit it?” exclaimed Dorian Gray, a strange sense of terror creeping over him. Was the world going [56] to be shown his secret? Were people to gape at the mystery of his life? That was impossible. Something–he did not know what–had to be done at once.

“Yes: I don’t suppose you will object to that. Georges Petit is going to collect all my best pictures for a special exhibition in the Rue de Sèze, which will open the first week in October. The portrait will only be away a month. I should think you could easily spare it for that time. In fact, you are sure to be out of town. And if you hide it always behind a screen, you can’t care much abut it.”

Dorian Gray passed his hand over his forehead. There were beads of perspiration there. He felt that he was on the brink of a horrible danger. “You told me a month ago that you would never exhibit it," he said. “Why have you changed your mind? You people who go in for being consistent have just as many moods as others. The only difference is that your moods are rather meaningless. You can’t have forgotten that you assured me most solemnly that nothing in the world would induce you to send it to any exhibition. You told Harry exactly the same thing.” He stopped suddenly, and a gleam of light came into his eyes. He remembered that Lord Henry had said to him once, half seriously and half in jest, “If you want to have an interesting quarter of an hour, get Basil to tell you why he won’t exhibit your picture. He told me why he wouldn’t, and it was a revelation to me.” Yes, perhaps Basil, too, had his secret. He would ask him and try.

“Basil,” he said, coming over quite close, and looking him straight in the face, “we have each of us a secret. Let me know yours, and I will tell you mine. What was your reason for refusing to exhibit my picture?”

Hallward shuddered in spite of himself. “Dorian, if I told you, you might like me less than you do, and you would certainly laugh at me. I could not bear your doing either of those two things. If you wish me never to look at your picture again, I am content. I have always you to look at. If you wish the best work I have ever done to be hidden from the world, I am satisfied. Your friendship is dearer to me than any fame or reputation.”

“No, Basil, you must tell me,” murmured Dorian Gray. “I think I have a right to know.” His feeling of terror had passed away, and curiosity had taken its place. He was determined to find out Basil Hallward’s mystery.

“Let us sit down, Dorian,” said Hallward, looking pale and pained. “Let us sit down. I will sit in the shadow, and you shall sit in the sunlight. Our lives are like that. Just answer me one question. Have you noticed in the picture something that you did not like?– something that probably at first did not strike you, but that revealed itself to you suddenly?”

“Basil!” cried the lad, clutching the arms of his chair with trembling hands, and gazing at him with wild, startled eyes.

“I see you did. Don’t speak. Wait till you hear what I have to say. It is quite true that I have worshipped you with far more romance of feeling than a man usually gives to a friend. Somehow, I had never loved a woman. I suppose I never had time. Perhaps, as [57] Harry says, a really ’grande passion’ is the privilege of those who have nothing to do, and that is the use of the idle classes in a country. Well, from the moment I met you, your personality had the most extraordinary influence over me. I quite admit that I adored you madly, extravagantly, absurdly. I was 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 I was away from you, you were still present in my art. It was all wrong and foolish. It is all wrong and foolish still. Of course I never let you know anything about this. It would have been impossible. You would not have understood it; I did not understand it myself. One day I determined to paint a wonderful portrait of you. It was to have been my masterpiece. It is my masterpiece. But, as I worked at it, every flake and film of color seemed to me to reveal my secret. I grew afraid that the world would know of my idolatry. I felt, Dorian, that I had told too much. 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 portrait 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 said 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 more abstract than we fancy. Form and color tell us of form and color,–that is all. It often seems to me that art conceals the artist far more completely than it ever reveals him. And so when I got this offer from Paris I determined to make your portrait the principal thing in my exhibition. It never occurred to me that you would refuse. I see now that you were right. The picture must not be shown. You must not be angry with me, Dorian, for what I have told you. As I said to Harry, once, you are made to be worshipped.”

Dorian Gray drew a long breath. The color came back to his cheeks, and a smile played about his lips. The peril was over. He was safe for the time. Yet he could not help feeling infinite pity for the young man who had just made this strange confession to him. He wondered if he would ever be so dominated by the personality of a friend. Lord Harry had the charm of being very dangerous. But that was all. He was too clever and too cynical to be really fond of. Would there ever be some one who would fill him with a strange idolatry? Was that one of the things that life had in store?

“It is extraordinary to me, Dorian,” said Hallward, “that you should have seen this in the picture. Did you really see it?”

“Of course I did.”

“Well, you don’t mind my looking at it now?”

Dorian shook his head. “You must not ask me that, Basil. I could not possibly let you stand in front of that picture.”

“You will some day, surely?”

[58] “Never.”

“Well, perhaps you are right. And now good-by, Dorian. You have been the one person in my life of whom I have been really fond. I don’t suppose I shall often see you again. You don’t know what it cost me to tell you all that I have told you.”

“My dear Basil,” cried Dorian, “what have you told me? Simply that you felt that you liked me too much. That is not even a compliment.”

“It was not intended as a compliment. It was a confession.”

“A very disappointing one.”

“Why, what did you expect, Dorian? You didn’t see anything else in the picture, did you? There was nothing else to see?”

“No: there was nothing else to see. Why do you ask? But you mustn’t talk about not meeting me again, or anything of that kind. You and I are friends, Basil, and we must always remain so.”

“You have got Harry,” said Hallward, sadly.

“Oh, Harry!” cried the lad, with a ripple of laughter. “Harry spends his days in saying what is incredible, and his evenings in doing what is improbable. Just the sort of life I would like to lead. But still I don’t think I would go to Harry if I was in trouble. I would sooner go to you, Basil.”

“But you won’t sit to me again?”

“Impossible!”

“You spoil my life as an artist by refusing, Dorian. No man comes across two ideal things. Few come across one.”

“I can’t explain it to you, Basil, but I must never sit to you again. I will come and have tea with you. That will be just as pleasant.”

“Pleasanter for you, I am afraid,” murmured Hallward, regretfully. “And now good-by. I am sorry you won’t let me look at the picture once again. But that can’t be helped. I quite understand what you feel about it.”

As he left the room, Dorian Gray smiled to himself. Poor Basil! how little he knew of the true reason! And how strange it was that, instead of having been forced to reveal his own secret, he had succeeded, almost by chance, in wresting a secret from his friend! How much that strange confession explained to him! Basil’s absurd fits of jealousy, his wild devotion, his extravagant panegyrics, his curious reticences,–he understood them all now, and he felt sorry. There was something tragic in a friendship so colored by romance.

He sighed, and touched the bell. The portrait must be hidden away at all costs. He could not run such a risk of discovery again. It had been mad of him to have the thing remain, even for an hour, in a room to which any of his friends had access.

[elegandia-blog]

The Picture of  Dorian Grey

Description;

The Picture of Dorian Gray begins on a beautiful summer day in Victorian era England, where Lord Henry Wotton, an opinionated man, is observing the sensitive artist Basil Hallward painting the portrait of Dorian Gray, a handsome young man who is Basil's ultimate muse. While sitting for the painting, Dorian listens to Lord Henry espousing his hedonistic world view and begins to think that beauty is the only aspect of life worth pursuing, prompting Dorian to wish that his portrait would age instead of himself.

Under Lord Henry's hedonistic influence, Dorian fully explores his sensuality. He discovers the actress Sibyl Vane, who performs Shakespeare plays in a dingy, working-class theater. Dorian approaches and courts her, and soon proposes marriage. The enamored Sibyl calls him "Prince Charming", and swoons with the happiness of being loved, but her protective brother, James, warns that if "Prince Charming" harms her, he will murder him.

Dorian invites Basil and Lord Henry to see Sibyl perform in Romeo and Juliet. Sibyl, too enamored with Dorian to act, performs poorly, which makes both Basil and Lord Henry think Dorian has fallen in love with Sibyl because of her beauty instead of her acting talent. Embarrassed, Dorian rejects Sibyl, telling her that acting was her beauty; without that, she no longer interests him. On returning home, Dorian notices that the portrait has changed; his wish has come true, and the man in the portrait bears a subtle sneer of cruelty.

(1945).

Conscience-stricken and lonely, Dorian decides to reconcile with Sibyl, but he is too late, as Lord Henry informs him that Sibyl has killed herself. Dorian then understands that, where his life is headed, lust and beauty shall suffice. Dorian locks the portrait up, and over the following eighteen years, he experiments with every vice, influenced by a morally poisonous French novel that Lord Henry Wotton gave him.

One night, before leaving for Paris, Basil goes to Dorian's house to ask him about rumors of his self-indulgent sensualism. Dorian does not deny his debauchery, and takes Basil to see the portrait. The portrait has become so hideous that Basil is only able to identify it as his by the signature he affixes to all his portraits. Basil is horrified, and beseeches Dorian to pray for salvation. In anger, Dorian blames his fate on Basil and stabs him to death. Dorian then calmly blackmails an old friend, the scientist Alan Campbell, into using his knowledge of chemistry to destroy the body of Basil Hallward. Alan later kills himself.

 A 19th century London opium den (based on fictional accounts of the day)

To escape the guilt of his crime, Dorian goes to an opium den, where James Vane is unknowingly present. James had been seeking vengeance upon Dorian ever since Sibyl killed herself, but had no leads to pursue: the only thing he knew about Dorian was the name Sibyl called him, "Prince Charming". In the opium den however he hears someone refer to Dorian as "Prince Charming", and he accosts Dorian. Dorian deceives James into believing that he is too young to have known Sibyl, who killed herself 18 years earlier, as his face is still that of a young man. James relents and releases Dorian, but is then approached by a woman from the opium den who reproaches James for not killing Dorian. She confirms that the man was Dorian Gray and explains that he has not aged in 18 years. James runs after Dorian, but he has gone.

James then begins to stalk Dorian, causing Dorian to fear for his life. However, during a shooting party, a hunter accidentally kills James Vane, who was lurking in a thicket. On returning to London, Dorian tells Lord Henry that he will live righteously from now on. His new probity begins with deliberately not breaking the heart of the naïve Hetty Merton, his current romantic interest. Dorian wonders if his newfound goodness has reverted the corruption in the picture, but when he looks at it, he sees only an even uglier image of himself. From that, Dorian understands that his true motives for the self-sacrifice of moral reformation were the vanity and curiosity of his quest for new experiences, along with the desire to restore beauty to the picture.

Deciding that only full confession will absolve him of wrongdoing, Dorian decides to destroy the last vestige of his conscience and the only piece of evidence remaining of his crimes—the picture. In a rage, he takes the knife with which he murdered Basil Hallward and stabs the picture. The servants of the house awaken on hearing a cry from the locked room; on the street, a passerby who also heard the cry, calls the police. On entering the locked room, the servants find an unknown old man stabbed in the heart, his figure withered and decrepit. The servants identify the disfigured corpse by the rings on its fingers, which belonged to Dorian Gray.

Beside him, the portrait is now restored to its former appearance of beauty.

https://en.wikipedia.org

The film;

An astounding movie , one of the bests I have ever seen.

I absolutely recommend it !!!!!

Criticism; (as far as the book is concerned)

In the 19th century, the critical reception of the novel The Picture of Dorian Gray (1890) was poor. The book critic of The Irish Times said, The Picture of Dorian Gray was "first published to some scandal. Such book reviews achieved for the novel a "certain notoriety for being 'mawkish and nauseous', 'unclean', 'effeminate' and 'contaminating'. Such moralistic scandal arose from the novel's homoeroticism, which offended the sensibilities (social, literary, and aesthetic) of Victorian book critics. Yet, most of the criticism was personal, attacking Wilde for being a hedonist with a distorted view of conventional morality of Victorian Britain. In the 30 June 1890 issue of the Daily Chronicle, the book critic said that Wilde's novel contains "one element ... which will taint every young mind that comes in contact with it." In the 5 July 1890 issue of the Scots Observer, a reviewer asked "Why must Oscar Wilde 'go grubbing in muck-heaps?'" In response to such criticism, Wilde obscured the homoeroticism of the story and expanded the personal background of the characters.

https://en.wikipedia.org

Criticism; (when it comes to the film)

By James Berardinelli ;

”Oliver Parker has made a career out of adapting Oscar Wilde, with versions of An Ideal Husband and The Importance of Being Earnest already on video store shelves. For his latest, Parker has turned his attention to what may be Wilde's most famous novel: The Picture of Dorian Gray. His interpretation, for which he uses a screenplay by Toby Finlay, is simply called Dorian Gray, and it brings a modern sense of the lurid to a classic story. While Wilde's wit remains firmly entrenched, there's also a gruesome vein of gothic horror, and elements of the original which existed in the subtext or were merely hinted at are brought graphically into the open. Dorian Gray casts Ben Barnes as the pretty boy Dorian and Colin Firth as his mentor in matters of self-gratification. Barnes, who achieved international recognition as the title character in Prince Caspian is fine as Dorian, although there are instances in which his range is strained. Firth, on the other hand, is nothing short of brilliant as Lord Henry Wotton. He chews on some of Wilde's best lines ("Conscience is just a polite term for cowardice", "The only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it") with the kind of relish that only a seasoned thespian can do. The movie begins with Dorian - a handsome, kind, innocent young man - arriving in London on a day in the late 19th century to take over his grandfather's estate, which he inherited when the old man died. Dorian is quickly befriended by Basil Hallward (Ben Chaplin), who desires to paint his picture, and Lord Henry, who teaches life-lessons in pleasure. Dorian's growing vanity leads him to proclaim that he would trade his soul for the opportunity to remain young and virile - a deal that the Devil is all too happy to make. Soon, the portrait of Dorian painted by Basil becomes the repository for all of the moral and physical ills afflicting the man. Dorian attempts to remain "good" and proposes marriage to his actress girlfriend, Sibyl Vane (Rachel Hurd-Wood) but, after her death, there is no reining in his excesses. As Dorian Gray adaptations go, this is not the most faithful, but it is among the most entertaining. With plenty of scares, gore, sex, and nudity, this comes as close to the exploitation genre as it does to a classical literature adaptation. Is there such at thing as a literate exploitation movie? Firth's performance elevates the film and Parker shows that not only does he have a deft hand when it comes to handling Wilde's dialogue, but he is adept at developing a creepy atmosphere. The re-creations of late 19th and early 20th century London are impeccable. Dorian Gray is not as blissfully enjoyable as Parker's An Ideal Husband, but it's at least as good as (and perhaps a little better than) his The Importance of Being Earnest and represents another feather in his Wilde cap. Note: Despite having an impressive cast and crew, Dorian Gray was not picked up for theatrical distribution in the United States.  The reasons are more economic than indicative of quality - U.S. distributors are increasingly wary of purchasing rights to any foreign film (even those without subtitles) that does not have a clear multiplex or art-house appeal.  Dorian Gray, with its pastiche of horror and literary elements, fits into neither category and is therefore viewed as a "gamble" - something a risk-averse industry in unwilling to take.  As a result, Dorian Gray is headed direct-to-video in the United States. “

http://www.reelviews.net

My views...

... you should read the book and watch the movie , despite the negative criticism !!!!!

[quillsink]

2, 13, 15, and 19 for the ask game! Congratulations on 100 followers!

2.Who is your favourite fictional character and why?

Answered this, here!

Oh god. This is a hard one. Okay okay, Basil Hallward from The Picture of Dorian Gray is one of my top favourites - he’s gay and an artist and I love his personality and how he continues to stay moral throughout the book even if everyone else turns evil, and I love that because it gives me strength, that I can keep going even if everyone else in the world is terrible.

13. Which season do you feel at home in?

Hmmm. Probably during autumn (I’m going by how the seasons were in Britain because where I live now is just boiling hot or lukewarm lmao). It had this weird nostalgic feeling, with the leaves turning red, and the weather being cold but not too cold and the wind would make this weird rustling sound in the trees and I loved it.

15. Do you speak formally when texting and emailing?

It depends! When I’m texting my friends, I’ll generally use abbreviations and slang and swear words, but if it’s an email to a teacher or something, formally. But yeah, mostly informal.

19.Do you prefer forests, sea shores, or meadows?

Aaaaaahhhh. Why. This is so harrrrd. Um. I like forests because of how secluded they seem - the trees are so thick you feel like you’re alone and the rest of the world has no clue where you are. I like sea shores because there’s something so grand about the sea - so magical and huge and powerful with its foamy waves. I love meadows because they remind me of my time in Britain - before I had depression, before everything went to hell, when life was still good, and they’re peaceful.

Thanks for the ask, Lucy!