Gray. Oscar Wilde. This eBook was designed and published by Planet PDF. For more free. eBooks visit our Web site at fepipvawoobig.gq To hear. Project Gutenberg · 59, free ebooks · 65 by Oscar Wilde. The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde. No cover available. Download; Bibrec. Get Instant Access to Il Ritratto Di Dorian Gray (Italian Edition) By Oscar Wilde # b77 EBOOK. EPUB site PDF. Read Download Online Il Ritratto Di.
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But there are also other secondary themes, such as dandyism, the cult of the senses, hedonism and narcissism. This story is propounded allegorical; it is a 19th century version pf the Smith of Faust - the story a man who sells his soul to the devil so that all his desires might be sa7sfied. Wilde play on the Renaissance idea of the correspondence between the physical and spiritual realms: The picture is not an autonomous self: The moral of his novel is that every excess must be punished and reality cannot be escaped; when Dorian destroys the picture, he cannot avoid the punishment for all his sins, that is, death.
The preface states that art must have no moral aim and is to be uses only to celebrate beauty and the sensorial pleasure. Qualora non la ricevessi, controlla la tua casella di Posta indesiderata. Se anche questo non va come dovrebbe, comincia a pregare!
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Accedi via social Accedi con Facebook. Accedi con Google. Yes, Mr. Gray, the gods have been good to you. But what the gods give they quickly take away. You have only a few years in which to live really, perfectly, and fully. When your youth goes, your beauty will go with it, and then you will suddenly discover that there are no triumphs left for you, or have to content yourself with those mean triumphs that the memory of your past will make more bitter than defeats.
Every month as it wanes brings you nearer to something dreadful. Time is jealous of you, and wars against your lilies and your roses.
You will become sallow, and hollow-cheeked, and dull-eyed. You will suffer horribly These are the sickly aims, the false ideals, of our age. Live the wonderful life that is in you! Let nothing be lost upon you. Be always searching for new sensations. Be afraid of nothing. A new Hedonism— that is what our century wants. You might be its visible symbol. With your personality there is nothing you could not do. The world belongs to you for a season. The moment I met you I saw that you were quite unconscious of what you really are, of what you really might be.
There was so much in you that charmed me that I felt I must tell you something about yourself. I thought how tragic it would be if you were wasted. For there is such a little time that your youth will last—such a little time. The common hill-flowers wither, but they blossom again.
EPUB Oscar Wilde - Il ritratto di Dorian Gray EBOOK PDF
The laburnum will be as yellow next June as it is now. In a month there will be purple stars on the clematis, and year after year the green night of its leaves will hold its purple stars. But we never get back our youth. The pulse of joy that beats in us at twenty becomes sluggish. Our limbs fail, our senses rot. We degenerate into hideous puppets, haunted by the memory of the passions of which we were too much afraid, and the exquisite temptations that we had not the courage to yield to.
There is absolutely nothing in the world but youth! The spray of lilac fell from his hand upon the gravel. A furry bee came and buzzed round it for a moment. Then it began to scramble all over the oval stellated globe of the tiny blossoms. He watched it with that strange interest in trivial things that we try to develop when things of high import make us afraid, or when we are stirred by some new emotion for which we cannot find expression, or when some thought that terrifies us lays sudden siege to the brain and calls on us to yield.
After a time the bee flew away. He saw it creeping into the stained trumpet of a Tyrian convolvulus. The flower seemed to quiver, and then swayed gently to and fro. Suddenly the painter appeared at the door of the studio and made staccato signs for them to come in.
They turned to each other and smiled. The light is quite perfect, and you can bring your drinks. Two green-and-white butterflies fluttered past them, and in the pear-tree at the corner of the garden a thrush began to sing. I wonder shall I always be glad?
That is a dreadful word. It makes me shudder when I hear it. Women are so fond of using it. They spoil every romance by trying to make it last for ever. It is a meaningless word, too. The only difference between a caprice and a lifelong passion is that the caprice lasts a little longer. Lord Henry flung himself into a large wicker arm-chair and watched him.
The sweep and dash of the brush on the canvas made the only sound that broke the stillness, except when, now and then, Hallward stepped back to look at his work from a distance. In the slanting beams that streamed through the open doorway the dust danced and was golden. The heavy scent of the roses seemed to brood over everything. After about a quarter of an hour Hallward stopped painting, looked for a long time at Dorian Gray, and then for a long time at the picture, biting the end of one of his huge brushes and frowning.
Lord Henry came over and examined the picture. It was certainly a wonderful work of art, and a wonderful likeness as well. Gray, come over and look at yourself.
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I am awfully obliged to you. When he saw it he drew back, and his cheeks flushed for a moment with pleasure. A look of joy came into his eyes, as if he had recognized himself for the first time.
He stood there motionless and in wonder, dimly conscious that Hallward was speaking to him, but not catching the meaning of his words. The sense of his own beauty came on him like a revelation. He had never felt it before.
He had listened to them, laughed at them, forgotten them. They had not influenced his nature. Then had come Lord Henry Wotton with his strange panegyric on youth, his terrible warning of its brevity.
That had stirred him at the time, and now, as he stood gazing at the shadow of his own loveliness, the full reality of the description flashed across him. Yes, there would be a day when his face would be wrinkled and wizen, his eyes dim and colourless, the grace of his figure broken and deformed. The scarlet would pass away from his lips and the gold steal from his hair.
The life that was to make his soul would mar his body. He would become dreadful, hideous, and uncouth. As he thought of it, a sharp pang of pain struck through him like a knife and made each delicate fibre of his nature quiver. His eyes deepened into amethyst, and across them came a mist of tears.
He felt as if a hand of ice had been laid upon his heart. It is one of the greatest things in modern art. I will give you anything you like to ask for it. I must have it. I shall grow old, and horrible, and dreadful. But this picture will remain always young. It will never be older than this particular day of June.
If it were only the other way! If it were I who was to be always young, and the picture that was to grow old! For that—for that—I would give everything! Yes, there is nothing in the whole world I would not give! I would give my soul for that! Dorian Gray turned and looked at him. 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.
It was so unlike Dorian to speak like that. What had happened? He seemed quite angry. His face was flushed and his cheeks burning. You will like them always. How long will you like me? Till I have my first wrinkle, I suppose.
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. I have never had such a friend as you, and I shall never have such another. You are not jealous of material things, are you?
Oscar Wilde: "Il ritratto di Dorian Gray"
I am jealous of the portrait you have painted of me. Why should it keep what I must lose? Every moment that passes takes something from me and gives something to it. Oh, if it were only the other way! If the picture could change, and I could be always what I am now!
Why did you paint it? It will mock me some day—mock me horribly! Lord Henry shrugged his shoulders. What is it but canvas and colour?
Dorian In Excelsis
I will not let it come across our three lives and mar them. What was he doing there? His fingers were straying about among the litter of tin tubes and dry brushes, seeking for something. Yes, it was for the long palette-knife, with its thin blade of lithe steel. He had found it at last. He was going to rip up the canvas.
With a stifled sob the lad leaped from the couch, and, rushing over to Hallward, tore the knife out of his hand, and flung it to the end of the studio. I am in love with it, Basil. It is part of myself. I feel that. Then you can do what you like with yourself. And so will you, Harry? Or do you object to such simple pleasures? What absurd fellows you are, both of you!
I wonder who it was defined man as a rational animal. It was the most premature definition ever given. Man is many things, but he is not rational.
I am glad he is not, after all— though I wish you chaps would not squabble over the picture. You had much better let me have it, Basil. I gave it to you before it existed. You have lived since then.
There was a rattle of cups and saucers and the hissing of a fluted Georgian urn. Two globe-shaped china dishes were brought in by a page.
Dorian Gray went over and poured out the tea. The two men sauntered languidly to the table and examined what was under the covers. I think that would be a rather nice excuse: it would have all the surprise of candour. It is so sombre, so depressing. Sin is the only real colour-element left in modern life. The one who is pouring out tea for us, or the one in the picture? I would sooner not. I have a lot of work to do.
It has nothing to do with our own will. Young men want to be faithful, and are not; old men want to be faithless, and cannot: that is all one can say. He always breaks his own. I beg you not to go. Good-bye, Harry. Good-bye, Dorian.I shall grow old, and horrible, and dreadful. Beside him, the portrait is now restored to its former appearance of beauty. I have just been telling him what a capital sitter you were, and now you have spoiled everything.
You are not jealous of material things, are you? Sto cercando:.
Egli incarnava la figura del dandy, ovvero dell'artista tutto dedito alla ricerca del piacere in ogni sua forma rara e squisita, per cui la bellezza sostituisce ogni valore morale.
For there is such a little time that your youth will last—such a little time. You had much better let me have it, Basil.
Or, rather, let me try not to think.
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