The Picture of Dorian Gray (Teil 3)
There is no such thing as a moral or an immoral book. Books are well
written, or badly written. That is all.
The nineteenth century dislike of realism is the rage of Caliban seeing
his own face in a glass.
The nineteenth century dislike of romanticism is the rage of Caliban
not seeing his own face in a glass. 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. No artist desires to prove
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exactly as an auctioneer treats his goods. She either explains them
entirely away, or tells one everything about them except what one wants
to know.”
“Poor Lady Brandon! You are hard on her, Harry!” said Hallward
listlessly.
“My dear fellow, she tried to found a _salon_, and only succeeded in
opening a restaurant. How could I admire her? But tell me, what did she
say about Mr. Dorian Gray?”
“Oh, something like, ‘Charming boy—poor dear mother and I absolutely
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always looked for and always missed.”
“Basil, this is extraordinary! I must see Dorian Gray.”
Hallward got up from the seat and walked up and down the garden. After
some time he came back. “Harry,” he said, “Dorian Gray is to me simply
a motive in art. You might see nothing in him. I see everything in him.
He is never more present in my work than when no image of him is there.
He is a suggestion, as I have said, of a new manner. I find him in the
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a rustle of chirruping sparrows in the green lacquer leaves of the ivy,
and the blue cloud-shadows chased themselves across the grass like
swallows. How pleasant it was in the garden! And how delightful other
people’s emotions were!—much more delightful than their ideas, it
seemed to him. One’s own soul, and the passions of one’s friends—those
were the fascinating things in life. He pictured to himself with silent
amusement the tedious luncheon that he had missed by staying so long
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myself,” answered the lad, swinging round on the music-stool in a
wilful, petulant manner. When he caught sight of Lord Henry, a faint
blush coloured his cheeks for a moment, and he started up. “I beg your
pardon, Basil, but I didn’t know you had any one with you.”
“This is Lord Henry Wotton, Dorian, an old Oxford friend of mine. I
have just been telling him what a capital sitter you were, and now you
have spoiled everything.”
— und 33 weitere Textstellen im Training.