The Picture of Dorian Gray

He stood unspent: a face too fair for time. Basil caught the soul in line, in cheek, in climb. Then Lord Henry, with his languid, dangerous grace, let aphorism spill like satin through the place. Youth—gold beneath the lamp. A bloom before the bruise. A beauty made to be desired, then abused. “The only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it.” The words slid in like smoke. Beauty is a form of Genius— and beyond all the truth that logic can invoke. I can resist everything except temptation! “The only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it!” Keep the bloom; let others pay. Let the picture take the stain away! Beauty is a form of Genius— I can resist everything except temptation! The portrait held its gaze while flesh grew false and worn. Each secret, each delight, returned as something torn. In yellow-tinted rooms, the talk was bright, then cruel; the book lay open like a hand that taught him its own rule. And every hidden hour, unmasked, began to show. He asked for more of life, more masker, more disguise. A mirror for the masks he wore before all eyes. The picture kept the burden. The heart kept the disease. No mercy in the canvas— only witness, only wait. The years went gathering there, quiet, inexorable, great. He fled the sight, yet fed it; each denial bred the truth. Till shame came home at last, and found him in the room. I can resist everything except temptation! “The only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it!” Keep the bloom; let others age. Let the picture bear the blight and rage! Beauty is a form of Genius— I can resist everything except temptation! The curtain. The portrait. The final, dreadful scene. Beauty split from innocence— and innocence unseen.