Name: The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde, Full Audiobook with Subtitles（The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde, Full Audiobook with Subtitles）
Uploaded: 2023-10-12T04:43:12.000Z
Duration: 9 h 6 min 7 s
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The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde

THE PREFACE The artist is the creator of beautiful things.

To reveal art and conceal the artist is art's aim.

The critic is he who can translate into another manner or a new material his impression of

The highest as the lowest form of criticism is a mode of autobiography.

Those who find ugly meanings in beautiful things are corrupt without being charming.

Those who find beautiful meanings in beautiful things are the cultivated.

They are the elect to whom beautiful things mean only beauty.

There is no such thing as a moral or an immoral book.

Books are well written, or badly written.

The nineteenth century dislike of realism is the rage of Caliban seeing his own face

The nineteenth century dislike of romanticism is the rage of Caliban not seeing his own

The moral life of man forms part of the subject-matter of the artist, but the morality of art consists

in the perfect use of an imperfect medium.

An ethical sympathy in an artist is an unpardonable mannerism of style.

Thought and language are to the artist instruments of an art.

Vice and virtue are to the artist materials for an art.

From the point of view of form, the type of all the arts is the art of the musician.

From the point of view of feeling, the actor's craft is the type.

Those who go beneath the surface do so at their peril.

Those who read the symbol do so at their peril.

It is the spectator, and not life, that art really mirrors.

Diversity of opinion about a work of art shows that the work is new, complex, and vital.

When critics disagree, the artist is in accord with himself.

We can forgive a man for making a useful thing as long as he does not admire it.

The only excuse for making a useless thing is that one admires it intensely.

The studio was filled with the rich odour of roses, and when the light summer wind stirred

amidst the trees of the garden, there came through the open door the heavy scent of the

lilac, or the more delicate perfume of the pink-flowering thorn.

From the corner of the divan of Persian saddle-bags on which he was lying, smoking, as was his

custom, innumerable cigarettes, Lord Henry Wotton could just catch the gleam of the honey-sweet

and honey-coloured blossoms of a laburnum, whose tremulous branches seemed hardly able

to bear the burden of a beauty so flamelike as theirs; and now and then the fantastic

shadows of birds in flight flitted across the long tussore-silk curtains that were stretched

in front of the huge window, producing a kind of momentary Japanese effect, and making him

think of those pallid, jade-faced painters of Tokyo who, through the medium of an art

that is necessarily immobile, seek to convey the sense of swiftness and motion.

The sullen murmur of the bees shouldering their way through the long unmown grass, or

circling with monotonous insistence round the dusty gilt horns of the straggling woodbine,

seemed to make the stillness more oppressive.

The dim roar of London was like the bourdon note of a distant organ.

In the centre of the room, clamped to an upright easel, stood the full-length portrait of a

young man of extraordinary personal beauty, and in front of it, some little distance away,

was sitting the artist himself, Basil Hallward, whose sudden disappearance some years ago

caused, at the time, such public excitement and gave rise to so many strange conjectures.

As the painter looked at the gracious and comely form he had so skilfully mirrored in

his art, a smile of pleasure passed across his face, and seemed about to linger there.

But he suddenly started up, and closing his eyes, placed his fingers upon the lids, as

though he sought to imprison within his brain some curious dream from which he feared he

“It is your best work, Basil, the best thing you have ever done,” said Lord Henry languidly.

“You must certainly send it next year to the Grosvenor.

Whenever I have gone there, there have been either so many people that I have not been

able to see the pictures, which was dreadful, or so many pictures that I have not been able

The Grosvenor is really the only place.”

“I don't think I shall send it anywhere,” he answered, tossing his head back in that

odd way that used to make his friends laugh at him at Oxford.

Lord Henry elevated his eyebrows and looked at him in amazement through the thin blue

wreaths of smoke that curled up in such fanciful whorls from his heavy, opium-tainted cigarette.

You do anything in the world to gain a reputation.

As soon as you have one, you seem to want to throw it away.

It is silly of you, for there is only one thing in the world worse than being talked

about, and that is not being talked about.

A portrait like this would set you far above all the young men in England, and make the

old men quite jealous, if old men are ever capable of any emotion.”

“I know you will laugh at me,” he replied, “but I really can't exhibit it.

I have put too much of myself into it.”

Lord Henry stretched himself out on the divan and laughed.

“Yes, I knew you would; but it is quite true, all the same.”

Upon my word, Basil, I didn't know you were so vain; and I really can't see any resemblance

between you, with your rugged strong face and your coal-black hair, and this young Adonis,

who looks as if he was made out of ivory and rose-leaves.

Why, my dear Basil, he is a Narcissus, and you—well, of course you have an intellectual

But beauty, real beauty, ends where an intellectual expression begins.

Intellect is in itself a mode of exaggeration, and destroys the harmony of any face.

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The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde, Full Audiobook with Subtitles（The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde, Full Audiobook with Subtitles）

absolutely

subtle

expression

curious