Портрет Доріана Грея

           Thesenseofhisownbeautycameonhimlikearevelation. Hehadneverfeltitbefore.BasilHallward’scomplimentshadseemedtohimtobemerelythecharmingexaggerationsoffriendship. Hehadlistenedtothem,laughedatthem,forgottenthem. Theyhadnotinfluencedhisnature. ThenhadcomeLordHenryWottonwithhisstrangepanegyriconyouth,histerriblewarningofitsbrevity. Thathadstirredhimatthetime,andnow,ashestoodgazingattheshadowofhisownloveliness,thefullrealityofthedescriptionflashedacrosshim. Yes,therewouldbeadaywhenhisfacewouldbewrinkledandwizen,hiseyesdimandcolourless,thegraceofhisfigurebrokenanddeformed. Thescarletwouldpassawayfromhislips,andthegoldstealfromhishair. Thelifethatwastomakehissoulwouldmarhisbody. Hewouldbecomedreadful,hideous,anduncouth. 

           Ashethoughtofit,asharppangofpainstruckthroughhimlikeaknife,andmadeeachdelicatefibreofhisnaturequiver. Hiseyesdeepenedintoamethyst,andacrossthemcameamistoftears. Hefeltasifahandoficehadbeenlaiduponhisheart. 

           "Don’tyoulikeit?"criedHallwardatlast,stungalittlebythelad’ssilence,notunderstandingwhatitmeant. 

           "Ofcoursehelikesit,"saidLordHenry. "Whowouldn’tlikeit?Itisoneofthegreatestthingsinmodernart. Iwillgiveyouanythingyouliketoaskforit. Imusthaveit." 

           "Itisnotmyproperty,Harry." 

           "Whosepropertyisit?" 

           "Dorian’s,ofcourse,"answeredthepainter. 

           "Heisaveryluckyfellow."