Портрет Доріана Грея

           Theyoungmanwasleaningagainstthemantel-shelf,watchinghimwiththatstrangeexpressionthatoneseesonthefacesofthosewhoareabsorbedinaplaywhensomegreatartistisacting. Therewasneitherrealsorrowinitnorrealjoy. Therewassimplythepassionofthespectator,withperhapsaflickeroftriumphinhiseyes. Hehadtakenthefloweroutofhiscoat,andwassmellingit,orpretendingtodoso. 

           "Whatdoesthismean?"criedHallward,atlast. Hisownvoicesoundedshrillandcuriousinhisears. 

           "Yearsago,whenIwasaboy,"saidDorianGray,crushingtheflowerinhishand,"youmetme,flatteredme,andtaughtmetobevainofmygoodlooks. Onedayyouintroducedmetoafriendofyours,whoexplainedtomethewonderofyouth,andyoufinishedtheportraitofmethatrevealedtomethewonderofbeauty. Inamadmoment,that,evennow,Idon’tknowwhetherIregretornot,Imadeawish,perhapsyouwouldcallitaprayer...." 

           "Irememberit! Oh,howwellIrememberit! No!thethingisimpossible. Theroomisdamp. Mildewhasgotintothecanvas. ThepaintsIusedhadsomewretchedmineralpoisoninthem. Itellyouthethingisimpossible." 

           "Ah,whatisimpossible? "murmuredtheyoungman,goingovertothewindow,andleaninghisforeheadagainstthecold,mist-stainedglass. 

           "Youtoldmeyouhaddestroyedit." 

           "Iwaswrong. Ithasdestroyedme." 

           "Idon’tbelieveitismypicture."