I've been in a terrible reading slump (thanks to school and the great art of procrastination) so I thought to myself...hmm, why not reread The Picture of Dorian Gray? And now here I am, 3 chapters into the book at 12:58 am on a school night, writing this down furiously as I now have newfound love for Oscar Wilde.
I've thought of Wilde everyday since i first read this book last year. Since then I've consumed every piece of his work that I could find, ranging from poetry to short stories to plays, and it is safe to say that nothing - NOTHING - has disappointed me yet. His humour? Astounding. His philosophy? It will leave you awake at night. His characters? So full of depth, emotions and vulnerability. And there's always a moral towards the end. So you're getting the best of all worlds.
It is now 1:04 am, and I have no clue where I am going with this post. So here's what I'll do, as I read the Picture of Dorian Gray, I'm gonna write down the quotes which are worthy of appreciation here, and that should be enough to convince you to pick up Wilde.
He had set himself to the serious study of the great aristocratic art of doing absolutely nothing.
Felt lowkey attacked when I read this. Wilde bro getting a bit personal here :(
So that was the story of Dorian Gray's parentage. Crudely as it had been told to him, it had yet stirred him by its suggestion of everything for a mad passion. A few wild weeks of happiness cut short by a hideous, treacherous crime. Months of voiceless agony, and then a child born in pain. The mother snatched away by death, the boy left to solitude and tyranny of an old and loveless man. Yes; it was an interesting background.
10/10 for the story telling skills 👏
Behind every exquisite thing that existed, there was something tragic.
Like how does the human brain come up with such intricate sentences?
Mr. Erskine of Treadley has the world on his shelves. We practical men like to see things, not read about them.
Me too 🤭
I can sympathise with everything except suffering. I cannot sympathise with that. It is too ugly, too horrible, too distressing. There is something terribly morbid in the modern sympathy with pain. One should sympathise with the colour, the beauty, the joy of life. The less said about life's sores, the better.
1:40 am, two more chapters read, time to put the book down. Since I am absolutely convinced that no one reads these posts fully, this is more of a dramatic monologue. Anyways this is it for now.