《道林格雷的画像》第1章

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The　Preface
（小//说；网/
the　preface
the　artist　is　the　creator　of　beautiful　things。
to　reveal　art　and　conceal　the　artist　is　arts　aim。
the　critic　is　he　who　can　translate　into　another　manner　or　a　new　material　his　impression　of　beautiful　things。
the　highest　as　the　lowest　form　of　criticism　is　a　mode　of　autobiography。　those　who　find　ugly　meanings　in　beautiful　things　are　corrupt　without　being　charming。
this　is　a　fault。
those　who　find　beautiful　meanings　in　beautiful　things　are　the　cultivated。　for　these　there　is　hope。
they　are　the　elect　to　whom　beautiful　things　mean　only　beauty。
there　is　no　such　thing　as　a　moral　or　an　immoral　book。　books　are　well　written；　or　badly　written。
that　is　all。
the　nineteenth　century　dislike　of　realism　is　the　rage　of　caliban　seeing　his　own　face　in　a　glass。
the　nineteenth　century　dislike　of　romanticism　is　the　rage　of　caliban　not　seeing　his　own　face　in　a　glass。
the　moral　life　of　man　forms　part　of　the　subject…matter　of　the　artist；　but　the　morality　of　art　consists　in　the　perfect　use　of　an　imperfect　medium。　no　artist　desires　to　prove　anything。　even　things　that　are　true　can　be　proved。
no　artist　has　ethical　sympathies。
an　ethical　sympathy　in　an　artist　is　an　unpardonable　mannerism　of　style。　no　artist　is　ever　morbid。　the　artist　can　express　everything。　
thought　and　language　are　to　the　artist　instruments　of　an　art。　
vice　and　virtue　are　to　the　artist　materials　for　an　art。　
from　the　point　of　view　of　form；　the　type　of　all　the　arts　is　the　art　of　the　musician。
from　the　point　of　view　of　feeling；　the　actors　craft　is　the　type。
all　art　is　at　once　surface　and　symbol。　
those　who　go　beneath　the　surface　do　so　at　their　peril。　
those　who　read　the　symbol　do　so　at　their　peril。　
it　is　the　spectator；　and　not　life；　that　art　really　mirrors。　
diversity　of　opinion　about　a　work　of　art　shows　that　the　work　is　new；　plex；　and　vital。
when　critics　disagree；　the　artist　is　in　accord　with　himself。
we　can　forgive　a　man　for　making　a　useful　thing　as　long　as　he　does　not　admire　it。　the　only　excuse　for　making　a　useless　thing　is　that　one　admires　it　intensely。
all　art　is　quite　useless。
oscar　wilde　
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Chapter　1
小！说
chapter　1
the　studio　was　filled　with　the　rich　odour　of　roses；　and　when　the　light　summer　wind　stirred　amidst　the　trees　of　the　garden；　there　came　through　the　open　door　the　heavy　scent　of　the　lilac；　or　the　more　delicate　perfume　of　the　pink…flowering　thorn。
from　the　corner　of　the　divan　of　persian　saddle…bags　on　which　he　was　lying；　smoking；　as　was　his　custom；　innumerable　cigarettes；　lord　henry　wotton　could　just　catch　the　gleam　of　the　honey…sweet　and　honey…coloured　blossoms　of　a　laburnum；　whose　tremulous　branches　seemed　hardly　able　to　bear　the　burden　of　a　beauty　so　flamelike　as　theirs；　and　now　and　then　the　fantastic　shadows　of　birds　in　flight　flitted　across　the　long　tussore…silk　curtains　that　were　stretched　in　front　of　the　huge　window；　producing　a　kind　of　momentary　japanese　effect；　and　making　him　think　of　those　pallid；　jade…faced　painters　of　tokyo　who；　through　the　medium　of　an　art　that　is　necessarily　immobile；　seek　to　convey　the　sense　of　swiftness　and　motion。　the　sullen　murmur　of　the　bees　shouldering　their　way　through　the　long　unmown　grass；　or　circling　with　monotonous　insistence　round　the　dusty　gilt　horns　of　the　straggling　woodbine；　seemed　to　make　the　stillness　more　oppressive。　the　dim　roar　of　london　was　like　the　bourdon　note　of　a　distant　organ。
in　the　centre　of　the　room；　clamped　to　an　upright　easel；　stood　the　full…length　portrait　of　a　young　man　of　extraordinary　personal　beauty；　and　in　front　of　it；　some　little　distance　away；　was　sitting　the　artist　himself；　basil　hallward；　whose　sudden　disappearance　some　years　ago　caused；　at　the　time；　such　public　excitement　and　gave　rise　to　so　many　strange　conjectures。
as　the　painter　looked　at　the　gracious　and　ely　form　he　had　so　skilfully　mirrored　in　his　art；　a　smile　of　pleasure　passed　across　his　face；　and　seemed　about　to　linger　there。　but　he　suddenly　started　up；　and　closing　his　eyes；　placed　his　fingers　upon　the　lids；　as　though　he　sought　to　imprison　within　his　brain　some　curious　dream　from　which　he　feared　he　might　awake。
〃it　is　your　best　work；　basil；　the　best　thing　you　have　ever　done；〃　said　lord　henry　languidly。　〃you　must　certainly　send　it　next　year　to　the　grosvenor。　the　academy　is　too　large　and　too　vulgar。　whenever　i　have　gone　there；　there　have　been　either　so　many　people　that　i　have　not　been　able　to　see　the　pictures；　which　was　dreadful；　or　so　many　pictures　that　i　have　not　been　able　to　see　the　people；　which　was　worse。　the　grosvenor　is　really　the　only　place。〃
〃i　dont　think　i　shall　send　it　anywhere；〃　he　answered；　tossing　his　head　back　in　that　odd　way　that　used　to　make　his　friends　laugh　at　him　at　oxford。　〃no；　i　wont　send　it　anywhere。〃
lord　henry　elevated　his　eyebrows　and　looked　at　him　in　amazement　through　the　thin　blue　wreaths　of　smoke　that　curled　up　in　such　fanciful　whorls　from　his　heavy；　opium…tainted　cigarette。　〃not　send　it　anywhere？　my　dear　fellow；　why？　have　you　any　reason？　what　odd　chaps　you　painters　are！　you　do　anything　in　the　world　to　gain　a　reputation。　as　soon　as　you　have　one；　you　seem　to　want　to　throw　it　away。　it　is　silly　of　you；　for　there　is　only　one　thing　in　the　world　worse　than　being　talked　about；　and　that　is　not　being　talked　about。　a　portrait　like　this　would　set　you　far　above　all　the　young　men　in　england；　and　make　the　old　men　quite　jealous；　if　old　men　are　ever　capable　of　any　emotion。〃
〃i　know　you　will　laugh　at　me；〃　he　replied；　〃but　i　really　cant　exhibit　it。　i　have　put　too　much　of　myself　into　it。〃
lord　henry　stretched　himself　out　on　the　divan　and　laughed。　〃yes；　i　knew　you　would；　but　it　is　quite　true；　all　the　same。〃　〃too　much　of　yourself　in　it！　upon　my　word；　basil；　i　didnt　know　you　were　so　vain；　and　i　really　cant　see　any　resemblance　between　you；　with　your　rugged　strong　face　and　your　coal…black　hair；　and　this　young　adonis；　who　looks　as　if　he　was　made　out　of　ivory　and　rose…leaves。　why；　my　dear　basil；　he　is　a　narcissus；　and　you……　well；　of　course　you　have　an　intellectual　expression　and　all　that。　but　beauty；　real　beauty；　ends　where　an　intellectual　expression　begins。　intellect　is　in