Портрет Доріана Грея

           "Iamjealousofeverythingwhosebeautydoesnotdie. Iamjealousoftheportraityouhavepaintedofme. WhyshoulditkeepwhatImustlose?Everymomentthatpassestakessomethingfromme,andgivessomethingtoit. Oh,ifitwereonlytheotherway!Ifthepicturecouldchange,andIcouldbealwayswhatIamnow! Whydidyoupaintit? Itwillmockmesomeday—mockmehorribly!" Thehottearswelledintohiseyes;hetorehishandaway,and,flinginghimselfonthedivan,heburiedhisfaceinthecushions,asthoughhewaspraying. 

           "Thisisyourdoing,Harry,"saidthepainter,bitterly. 

           LordHenryshruggedhisshoulders."ItistherealDorianGray—thatisall." 

           "Itisnot." 

           "Ifitisnot,whathaveItodowithit?" 

           "YoushouldhavegoneawaywhenIaskedyou,"hemuttered. 

           "Istayedwhenyouaskedme,"wasLordHenry’sanswer. 

           "Harry,Ican’tquarrelwithmytwobestfriendsatonce,butbetweenyoubothyouhavemademehatethefinestpieceofworkIhaveeverdone,andIwilldestroyit. Whatisitbutcanvasandcolour?Iwillnotletitcomeacrossourthreelivesandmarthem." 

           DorianGrayliftedhisgoldenheadfromthepillow,andwithpallidfaceandtear-stainedeyeslookedathim, ashewalkedovertothedealpainting-tablethatwassetbeneaththehighcurtainedwindow. Whatwashedoingthere?Hisfingerswerestrayingaboutamongthelitteroftintubesanddrybrushes,seekingforsomething. Yes,itwasforthelongpalette-knife,withitsthinbladeoflithesteel. Hehadfounditatlast.Hewasgoingtoripupthecanvas.