The Picture Of Dorian Gray - Blog Posts

I’m never going to introduce my twinky boyfriend to my depresing best friend, because look how that went for Basil???

red wine drips from lips

like blood and

god knows it’ll never

be enough and

each hit burns like

it’s the first

you think you just might

die of thirst and

dorian, you’re gonna die

but pretty darling,

so am I

so you and I,

we’ll go down together

you’ll destroy yourself

and I’ll haunt you forever

nothing left to say but

beauty does not stay and

paint it fades and dries and

time it always flies

‘The Picture of Dorian Gray’ book review

‘The picture of Dorian Gray’ is literally a masterpiece. I was thrilled to read this novel. Surely it is the best work of Wilde. It is a different kind of novel. The story is fascinating.

Dorian Gray is the lead character of the novel. He himself is the hero and the villain. He is a young, charismatic chap who can’t help loving himself. Here narcissism is seen in Dorian Gray’s character. Being an over narcissist, Dorian also becomes totally self-absorbed eventually. He becomes wicked day by day and it all happens because of the change in the portrait of his which was drawn by one of his best mate.

The words of this novel are very strong and hypnotic. They make you forget the world you belong to and take you right to the Victorian era. The novel is full of great literary references and is explained in an artistic way which is different from the usual.

I really loved the ending. It was like there could not be any perfect ending except for Dorian’s demise. I definitely recommend everyone to read this masterpiece at least once.

The Portrait of Innocence

The cold halls of the House of the Hearth were filled with whispers—dangerous secrets and murmurs that seemed to drift like smoke, lingering in the air long after the words had faded. It was a place of power and influence, ruled by the most cunning of the Fatui, each member carefully selected for their skill and ruthlessness. And at the center of it all was Arlecchino, the Knave.

Her reputation preceded her, a woman of cold beauty and even colder ambition. She commanded respect, fear, and devotion in equal measure. The children of the House, raised under her watchful eye, adored her as their matron, but they knew better than to cross her. Her mask of elegance and charm concealed something far more dangerous beneath, a predator lurking behind every polite smile and graceful gesture.

You had come to the House under strange circumstances—a visitor, an outsider with no ties to the Fatui. Your connection to her world was tenuous at best, and yet, you found yourself drawn into it, into her orbit. Arlecchino had taken a peculiar interest in you from the moment you met, her sharp eyes assessing, her gaze lingering on you with a calculated intensity that left you unsettled. And though you should have feared her, there was something undeniably magnetic about her presence, something that pulled you closer despite the warnings that echoed in the back of your mind.

"You are different from the others," Arlecchino had said, her voice soft yet commanding. "You don't belong here, and yet... I can see something in you. Something untouched."

Her words had left you confused and intrigued, a strange mixture of emotions that you couldn’t quite place. There was something in the way she spoke to you, something in her eyes when she looked at you, that made you feel both exposed and desired. And as the days passed, you found yourself seeking her out more and more, captivated by her presence, despite the danger that seemed to radiate from her like a warning.

It was during one of these encounters that she led you to a small, dimly lit room deep within the House. The air was thick with the scent of incense, and in the center of the room stood an ornate, gilded mirror—a masterpiece of craftsmanship, its frame adorned with intricate carvings of serpents and roses. The surface of the mirror gleamed in the candlelight, reflecting the room with eerie clarity.

Arlecchino stood beside you, her hand resting lightly on your arm as she gestured toward the mirror. "Look," she said, her voice a low whisper. "Tell me what you see."

You hesitated, glancing at her before stepping closer to the mirror. For a moment, you saw nothing out of the ordinary—just your own reflection staring back at you. But then, as you looked deeper, something shifted. Your reflection began to change, subtly at first, then more noticeably. The face that stared back at you was no longer quite your own; it was a version of yourself—perfect, flawless, untouched by time or imperfection. It was the idealized image of who you could be, who you wanted to be.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" Arlecchino's voice was like silk, smooth and intoxicating. "This mirror shows you not just your reflection, but the possibility of what you could become. Untouched by the world, untainted by age or hardship. Eternal beauty... eternal youth."

Your breath caught in your throat as you stared at the reflection, unable to tear your eyes away. It was mesmerizing, this vision of yourself—a version of you that was more than just human, more than just mortal. It was perfection, in every sense of the word.

But something about it felt wrong. You could feel it, deep in your gut—a gnawing sense of unease that tugged at the edges of your mind.

"What is this?" you whispered, your voice trembling slightly.

Arlecchino’s lips curved into a smile, but it was a smile that did not reach her eyes. "It is a gift," she said softly, stepping closer to you, her presence almost overwhelming. "A chance to escape the decay of time. To become more than you are, more than anyone else. Isn’t that what you’ve always wanted?"

Her words were like a poison, seeping into your thoughts, twisting your desires. You had never been one for vanity, never craved the kind of beauty that others sought so desperately. And yet, standing here in front of the mirror, you couldn’t help but feel the temptation tugging at you.

"What’s the cost?" you asked, your voice barely audible, though you already knew the answer.

Arlecchino’s smile widened, her fingers brushing lightly against your skin. "The cost is nothing... and everything," she said. "You won’t age, you won’t change. But your true self—the one that lives beneath the surface—will remain hidden, locked away in the mirror. Every sin, every vice, every cruel thought will manifest there, leaving you untouched. The reflection will bear the weight of it all."

The idea was both seductive and terrifying. Eternal youth, eternal beauty, the chance to live without consequence, without fear of time’s cruel hand. But at what cost?

You looked at her, searching for some sign of deception, but all you saw was her cool, calculating gaze. She was offering you something that most people would kill for, and yet you couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something darker at play, something far more dangerous than she was letting on.

"What happens to the reflection?" you asked, your voice tight with unease.

Arlecchino’s eyes glinted with amusement, as if she had been waiting for you to ask that question. "The reflection will take on all the burdens of your soul," she said. "Every act of cruelty, every moment of weakness, will be etched into it. But you won’t have to look at it. You can live freely, without the weight of guilt or regret."

For a long moment, you were silent, your mind racing with the implications of what she was offering. Could you really live like that? Could you accept eternal youth and beauty at the cost of your soul?

"I don’t want to lose myself," you said quietly, turning away from the mirror to face her.

Arlecchino’s smile faded, her expression turning cold and unreadable. "You wouldn’t be losing yourself," she said, her voice sharp. "You would be elevating yourself. Becoming something more."

"But what would I become?" you asked, your heart pounding in your chest.

She stepped closer to you, her hand brushing against your cheek. "You would become whatever you want to be," she whispered, her voice like a siren’s call. "Free from the chains of morality, free to live as you please, without consequence."

Her words hung in the air, thick with temptation. And for a moment, you considered it—considered what it would be like to live without fear, without pain, without the constant weight of conscience. It was a tantalizing thought, one that tugged at the darkest corners of your mind.

But deep down, you knew that it wasn’t freedom she was offering. It was enslavement—to her, to the mirror, to the reflection that would slowly consume everything you were.

"I can’t," you said, stepping back from her, your voice trembling with resolve. "I won’t."

For a moment, Arlecchino’s expression remained unchanged, her eyes cold and calculating. But then, slowly, her lips curved into a smile—a smile that sent a shiver down your spine.

"Very well," she said softly, though there was a dangerous edge to her voice. "But remember this: the world is not kind to those who reject its gifts. And beauty... beauty is the most dangerous gift of all."

With those words, she turned and walked away, leaving you alone in the room with the mirror. The reflection still lingered in the glass, watching you with eyes that were no longer your own.

And as you gazed into it, you realized that the temptation would never truly leave you. It would haunt you, just as Arlecchino would, a shadow lurking in the corners of your mind, waiting for the moment when you would finally give in.

All the "I would have also dated Dorian Gray knowing how morally bankrupted he is. Have you seen him?" posts annoyed me a little but I thought they were just jokes and didn’t think much of them...But were they really? With the amount of people on the internet arguing how "books are not political" and debating how characters like Batman would be republican I am not so sure anymore.

We need more simps

Why did writers decide that simp characters are out and cold Duke of the North ones are in? Don’t get me wrong some aloof male leads are really good but most of the time their whole personality is their successful carriers and deep trauma that made them cold as stones. Simps are much more entertaining to watch/read about in my opinion.

The world needs more characters like Basil Hallward and Armand, but right now, only kdramas (to my knowledge; if you have recommendations, please share) are giving us the much-needed simps, which is tragic.

No one:

Me: The Picture of Dorian Gray but James McAvoy plays all roles.

Dorian:

Basil:

Henry:

I read so many things about the gay context and undertones in The Picture of Dorian Gray... Why were you all lying to me? It is just text plain and simple. I thought Basil was pretty upfront with his feelings for Dorian from the beginning and now I just read pages of him confessing his undying love and devotion to Dorian himself. How is that context, undertones or whatever words people are using to describe this clearly homosexual novel?

“Music was my refuge. I could crawl into the space between the notes and curl my back to loneliness.”

— Maya Angelou

Dorian Gray after one (1) conversation with Lord Henry

making basil and dorian siblings in the netflix adaptation is just… offensive. the picture of dorian gray was literally used in court to incriminate oscar wilde of homosexuality

netflix how are you going to explain this

if i had a penny for every fictional hedonist called henry that is possibly probably gay for their best friend and ruined their lives/the lives of others 'for the aesthetic' i would have three pennies, which isn't much, but it's weird that it's happened thrice

i was born in the wrong era. i was supposed to live in the 80s. the 1880s. i was destined to be some rich, idle, ill-fated protagonist of a victorian gothic novel and smoke cigarettes and wear rich fabrics and carry a cane with a carved top and write long, rambling letters in an illegible font to some close friend i may or may not be utterly infatued by and drink red wine at lavish dinners every other night and discuss philosophy and hedonism and sprawl dramatically across chaise longues and and-

which would you prefer?

option 1: to die young, having lived a life overflowing with adventure, excitement, and fulfillment, and never having to experience the decay of your youth

option 2: to die old, having lived a life of deep connections, rich experiences, and simple pleasures, yet needing to watch yourself and those you love slowly descend into the grave

The Portrait of Dorian Gray that I drew a while ago <3

people are very fond of giving away what they need most themselves.

-the picture of dorian gray, oscar wilde

Julian Morrow is just Lord Henry if Lord Henry were somehow more of a coward, change my mind

"The human race is filled with passion"

Dead poets society has my heart <3

I miss literature when it broke your heart in pieces and destroyed your soul. I don’t want you to tell me how your characters love eachothers, I want them to destroy themselves over their life and love, experiment the purity of emotions, reaching for life and love until they get burn.

Maybe I’m a pessimist but it’s truly beautiful

"What of art?" she asked.

"It is a malady."

"Love?"

"An illusion."

"Religion?"

"The fashionable substitute for belief."

"You are a sceptic."

"Never! Scepticism is the beginning of faith."

"What are you?"

"To define is to limit."

— Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray

ok so i'm rereading The Picture of Dorian Gray and...

WAS IT THIS GAY ALL THE TIME???

This year's halloween costume : Dorian Gray for Wilde's novel :D

"And you wish to be a poet; and you wish to be a lover"

- Virginia Woolf, The Waves

Green carnations

The obsession has reached fanart level.

Wilde, Oscar. The Picture of Dorian Gray.

When Dorian Gray said “Each of us has heaven and hell in him, Basil.” I felt that.

Wilde, Oscar. The Picture of Dorian Gray.

So, I was reading this book today and suddenly had a really strong craving for chocolate cake. I got up from bed, gathered all strength (it was a lazy kind of afternoon) and baked this little chocolate loaf cake.

Also, the book I am currently reading is The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde.