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JuliaMaria: Wie in Wikipedia zu 'Gegen den Strich' beschrieben: "Ein französischer Roman, der den Protagonisten in Oscar Wildes Roman Das Bildnis des Dorian Gray zu dekadenten Ausschweifungen inspiriert, wird häufig als Anspielung auf À rebours gedeutet. Wilde war - wie auch Stéphane Mallarmé - ein Bewunderer des Romans."… (més)
En esta novela, Oscar Wilde (1854-1900) indaga sobre el mito de la eterna juventud, al recrear el tema de un pacto diabólico para conservar la belleza y permanecer eternamente joven.
Un pintor queda fascinado por la extraordinaria hermosura de Dorian, su joven modelo, que vive en plena era victoriana satisfaciendo todos sus deseos, sin límites ni prejuicios.
El pintor declara que sería dichoso si Dorian pudiese permanecer para siempre exactamente como es. Este deseo se traduce en un pacto que lleva a Dorian a cometer todo tipo de atrocidades, hasta llegar al crimen.
A medida que se desarrolla la novela y que el protagonista se sumerge en el vicio en contraposición con el desesperado anhelo de eterna juventud. El retrato de Dorian Gray es una de las piedras angulares en los debates entre la ética y la estética, el bien y el mal, el arte y la vida. Un clásico imprescindible de la literatura. ( )
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The studio was filled with the rich odor of roses, and when the light summer wind stirred amid the trees of the garden, there came through the open door the heavy scent of lilac, or the more delicate perfume of the pink flowering thorn.
[Preface] The artist is the creator of beautiful things.
Citacions
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'Your rank and wealth, Harry; my brains, such as they are—my art, whatever it may be worth; Dorian Gray's good looks—we shall all suffer for what the gods have given us, suffer terribly.'
'Harry,' said Basil Hallward, looking him straight in the face, 'every portrait that is painted with feeling is a portrait of the artist, not of the sitter. The sitter is merely the accident, the occasion. It is not he who is revealed by the painter; it is rather the painter who, on the coloured canvas, reveals himself. The reason I will not exhibit this picture is that I am afraid that I have shown in it the secret of my own soul.'
He played with the idea and grew willful; tossed it into the air and transformed it; let it escape and recaptured it; made it iridescent with fancy and winged it with paradox. The praise of folly, as he went on, soared into a philosophy, and Philosophy herself became young, and catching the mad music of pleasure, wearing, one might fancy, her wine-stained robe and wreath of ivy, danced like a Bacchante over the hills of life, and mocked the slow Silenus for being sober. Facts fled before her like frightened forest things. Her white feet trod the huge press at which wise Omar sits, till the seething grape-juice rose round her bare limbs in waves of purple bubbles, or crawled in red foam over the vat's black, dripping, sloping sides. It was an extraordinary improvisation. He felt that the eyes of Dorian Gray were fixed on him, and the consciousness that amongst his audience there was one whose temperament he wished to fascinate seemed to give his wit keenness and to lend colour to his imagination. He was brilliant, fantastic, irresponsible. He charmed his listeners out of themselves, and they followed his pipe, laughing. Dorian Gray never took his gaze off him, but sat like one under a spell, smiles chasing each other over his lips and wonder growing grave in his darkening eyes.
Children begin by loving their parents; as they grow older they judge them; sometimes they forgive them.
The only thing worse than being talked about is not being talked about.
One should absorb the colour of life, but one should never remember its details. Details are always vulgar.
I choose my friends for their good looks, my acquaintances for their good characters, and my enemies for their good intellects. A man cannot be too careful in the choice of his enemies.
I adore simple pleasures. They are the last refuge of the complex.
I can believe anything, provided that it is quite incredible.
I like persons better than principles, and I like persons with no principles better than anything else in the world.
I love acting. It is so much more real than life.
Nowadays most people die of a sort of creeping common sense, and discover when it is too late that the only things one never regrets are one's mistakes.
One can always be kind to people about whom one cares nothing.
Perhaps, after all, America never has been discovered. I myself would say that it had merely been detected.
The advantage of the emotions is that they lead us astray, and the advantage of science is that it is not emotional.
The only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it. Resist it, and your soul grows sick with longing for the things it has forbidden to itself.
The reason we all like to think so well of others is that we are all afraid for ourselves. The basis of optimism is sheer terror.
But beauty, real beauty, ends where an intellectual expression begins. Intellect is in itself a mode of exaggeration, and destroys the harmony of any face. The moment one sits down to think, one becomes all nose, or all forehead, or something horrid. Look at the successful men in any of the learned professions. How perfectly hideous they are! Except, of course, in the Church. But then in the Church they don't think. A bishop keeps on saying at the age of eighty what he was told to say when he was a boy of eighteen, and as a natural consequence he always looks absolutely delightful. Your mysterious young friend, whose name you have never told me, but whose picture really fascinates me, never thinks. I feel quite sure of that. He is some brainless beautiful creature who should be always here in winter when we have no flowers to look at, and always here in the summer when we want something to chill our intelligence.
It is only the intellectually lost who ever argue.
Being natural is simply a pose, and the most irritating pose I know.
Women defend themselves by attacking, just as they attack by sudden and strange surrenders.
There is a luxury in self-reproach. When we blame ourselves, we feel that no one else has a right to blame us. It is the confession, not the priest, that gives us absolution.
Darreres paraules
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It was not till they had examined the rings that they recognized who it was.
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Google Books — S'està carregant…
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Dorian Gray: Influence
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