The Picture of Dorian Gray

A couple days ago I finished The Picture of Dorian Gray and had a very particular thought related to writing. But I don't remember what it was anymore.

On a scale of one to ten, I rate Dorian Gray as having improved my life, and I hope to return to it. The title character, however, is not what will draw me back. Lord Henry Watton, with his wit, his hedonism, and his paradoxical philosophies, is much more intriguing than the rise and fall of Dorian.

I picked up this book (er, downloaded it to my kindle) based on the strength of the dialog in The Importance of Being Earnest. While the verbal sparring is my favorite part of this Wilde work, too, but it isn't the front and center focal point. I suppose Wilde was enjoying having so much prose space to work with, as a dozen or so pages are spent on everything Dorian collects and studies over a span of 20 years. Next time through the book I'll likely give that a half-over while spending double time on each scene in which Lord Henry waxes philosophical, tossing out one liners like flowers after a play.

In one memorable exchange late in the book, he goes six or seven volleys with the Duchess. Each round of their conversation evolves the metaphor farther, shifting the scope of their witty battle, and neither party misses a beat or a point.

"Knowledge would be fatal. It is the uncertainty that charms one. A mist makes thigns wonderful."
"One may lose one's way."
"All ways end at the same point, my dear Gladys."
"What is that?"
"Disillusion."
"It was my debut in life," she sighed.
"It came to you crowned."
"I am tired of strawberry leaves."
"They become you."
"Only in public."
"You would miss them," said Lord Henry.
"I will not part with a petal."
"Monmouth has ears."
"Old age is dull of hearing."
"Has he never been jealous?"
"I wish he had been."
He glanced around as if in search of something.
"What are you looking for?" she inquired.
"The button from your foil," he answered. "You have dropped it."
She laughed. "I still have the mask."
"It makes your eyes lovelier."

And I'm speechless.

I know exchanges like these are pure fiction, illusions of their own, only possible when both voices come from one mind, a mind which has infinite time to jigsaw the pieces together. It still makes me swoon. Still makes me dream of having this sort o mincing dance in my own life, or at least in my own writing. Given the chance to re-write this book (a mental game I play with most things I read), I might be able to improve upon some of the plot or characterization of some of the players, but Lord Henry was perfect.

Is my accumulated knowledge of Poe, my familiarity with Doyle, and the passing of generations that make me immune to the twists and turns in Dorian Gray's plot? Why did I suffer no illusion about it being James Vane that was killed on the hunt? Why did I feel no suspense about the possible endings the novel could come to? Did the lack of salacious details regarding Dorian's sins and the scandals he dragged others into prevent me from investing more deeply? Perhaps, perhaps.

I wish I felt more strongly the pull of depravity on Dorian's soul. His betrayal of Sibyl, his part in her death had no intent behind it. I wish I'd seen him slip more gradually, more willfully into corruption. Or maybe it's there but I'm not seeing it. In the quote above, I don't know what the strawberry leaves are, or the full depth of the fencing references.

All in all, to my terribly untrained mind, I can't heap much praise on the bones of Dorian Gray, and can't see myself heaping it upon others in recommendation, but I'm glad I read this classic novel, and I will be eternally grateful for it introducing me to Lord Henry.