A Picture of Dorian Gray

Oscar Wilde first piqued my interest with his political essay The Soul of Man Under Socialism in which he argued for Socialism as a necessary basis for realized individualism. Much of those same views can be found in this book, although mostly the individualistic parts. It truly does read like an exposition of Wilde’s morals, Lord Henry reflecting in beatiful and witty dialogue what Wilde himself seems to be. Ironically this matches perfectly with what Wilde said about the main characters:

“Basil Hallward is what I think I am: Lord Henry is what the world thinks me: Dorian is what I would like to be—in other ages, perhaps.”

The more I learn about Wilde the more I think he really was a man ahead of his times. Quotes from Lord Henry really seems to reflect the worldview of a man fed up with the morals of his times, or of any time even, and makes me think about the kind of things which follow such as Existentialism.

“Modern morality consists in accepting the standard of one’s age. I consider that for any man of culture to accept the standard of his age is a form of the grossest immorality.”

Mostly thought of as a sort of hedonistic aestheticism, I think this is just the surface level, as in it happened to be the things that Lord Henry personally valued, but the general individualism of following one’s own morals shines through (which happens to be my favorite quote):

”I never approve, or disapprove, of anything now. It is an absurd attitude to take towards life. We are not sent into the world to air our moral prejudices. […] If a personality fascinates me, whatever mode of expression that personality selects is absolutely delightful to me.”

What really matters is the expression of personalities, which is exactly the kind of thing one talks about in a world without (let’s call them external) morals. This is shown even more when Henry discusses influences.

“There is no such thing as a good influence, Mr. Gray. All influence is immoral-immoral from the scientific point of view.” “Why?” “Because to influence a person is to give him one’s own soul. He does not think his natural thoughts, or burn with his natural passions. His virtues are not real to him. His sins, if there are such things as sins, are borrowed. He becomes an echo of some one else’s music, an actor of a part that has not been written for him. The aim of life is self-development. To realize one’s nature perfectly-that is what each of us is here for. People are afraid of themselves nowadays. They have forgotten the highest of all duties, the duty that one owes to one’s self.”

Hedonistic pleasure is as good as any in a godless world. I would however argue that Henry and Gray missed the more sensitive point of holding oneself up to a higher standard, which one could argue is the ”real” self, instead of chasing gratification of the senses. Maybe I just didn’t understand that part, the one where short-term pleasure was the only pleasure worth pursuing. Surely it would be worth sacrificing to follow one’s passion?

Okay, enough about morality. Apart from the refreshing morals shown, the book has an immense aestheticism and was incredibly pleasing to read. This isn’t really something I can highlight with my own words, so I will end on a quote and recommend the interested to read the book instead.

“There are few of us who have not sometimes wakened before dawn, either after one of those dreamless nights that make us almost enamored of death, or one of those nights of horror and misshapen joy, when through the chambers of the brain sweep phantoms more terrible than reality itself, and instinct with that vivid life that lurks in all grotesques, and that lends to Gothic art its enduring vitality, this art being, one might fancy, especially the art of those who minds have been troubled with the malady of reverie. Gradually white fingers creep through the curtains, and they appear to tremble. In black, fantastic shapes, dumb shadows crawl into the corners of the room, and crouch there. Outside, there is the stirring of the birds among the leaves, or the sound of men going forth to their work, or the sigh and sob of the wind coming down from the hills and wandering round the silent house, as though it feared to wake the sleeper, and yet must needs call forth Sleep from her purple cave. Veil after veil of thin, dusky gauze is lifted, and by degrees the forms and colors of things are restored to them, and we watch the dawn remaking the world in its antique pattern. The wan mirrors get back their mimic life. The flameless tapers stand where we had left them, and beside them lies the half-cut book that we had been studying, or the wired flower that we had worn at the ball, or the letter we had been afraid to read, or that we had read too often. Nothing seems to us changed. Out of the unreal shadows of the night comes back the real life that we had known. We have to resume it where we had left off, and there steals over us a terrible sense of the necessity for the continuance of energy in the same wearisome round of stereotyped habits, or a wild longing, it may be, that our eyelids might open some morning upon a world that had been refashioned anew in the darkness for our pleasure, a world in which things would have fresh shapes and colors, and be changed, or have other secrets, a world in which the past would have little or no place, or survive, at any rate, in no conscious form of obligation or regret, the remembrance even of joy having its bitterness, and the memories of pleasure their pain.”