Basil Hallward Quotes

Sin is a thing that writes itself across a man's face. It cannot be concealed.

Basil Hallward is what I think I am: Lord Henry what the world thinks me: Dorian what I would like to be—in other ages, perhaps.

Harry," said Basil Hallward, looking him straight in the face, "every portrait that is painted with feeling is a portrait of the artist, not of the sitter. The sitter is merely the accident, the occasion. It is not he who is revealed by the painter; it is rather the painter who, on the coloured canvas, reveals himself. The reason I will not exhibit this picture is that I am afraid that I have shown in it the secret of my own soul.

It often seems to me that art conceals the artist far more completely than it ever reveals him.

I have grown to love secrecy. It seems to be the one thing that can make modern life mysterious or marvellous to us. The commonest thing is delightful if one only hides it. When I leave town now I never tell my people where I am going. If I did, I would lose all my pleasure. It is a silly habit, I dare say, but somehow it seems to bring a great deal of romance into one's life.

The wind shook some blossoms from the trees, and the heavy lilac blooms, with their clustering stars, moved to and fro in the languid air. A grasshopper began to chirp by the wall, and like a blue thread a long, thin dragonfly floated past on its brown gauze wings. Lord Henry felt as if he could hear Basil Hallward's heart beating, and wondered what was coming.

Pero, ¿y el retrato? ¿Qué iba a decir del retrato? El lienzo de Basil Hallward contenía el secreto de su vida, narraba su historia. Le había enseñado a amar su propia belleza. ¿Le enseñaría también a aborrecer su propia alma? ¿Volvería alguna vez a mirarlo?

Harry," said Basil Hallward, looking him straight in the face, "every portrait that is painted with feeling is a portrait of the artist, not of the sitter. The sitter is merely the accident, the occasion.

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

His unreal and selfish love would yield to some higher influence, would be transformed into some nobler passion, and the portrait that Basil Hallward had painted of him would be a guide to him through life, would be to him what holiness is to some, and conscience to others, and the fear of God to us all.

Harry, spuse Basil Hallward, privindu-l drept în față, fiecare portret care este pictat cu simțire este un portret al artistului, nu al modelului. Modelul nu este decât un accident, o oportunitate. Nu el este cel dezvăluit de către pictor, ci mai degrabă pictorul este cel care, pe pânza pictată, se dezvăluie pe sine însuși.

I suppose you have heard the news, Basil?" said Lord Henry that evening as Hallward was shown into a little private room at the Bristol

The sense of his own beauty came on him like a revelation. He had never felt it before. Basil Hallward’s compliments

Harry' dedi Basil Hallward bakışlarını ona çevirerek, 'hissederek yapılan her portre poz veren kişinin değil, sanatçının bir portresidir.

the portrait that Basil Hallward had painted of him would be a guide to him through life, would be to him what holiness is to some, and conscience to others, and the fear of God to us all. There were opiates for remorse, drugs that could lull the moral sense to sleep. But here was a visible symbol of the degradation of sin. Here was an ever-present sign of the ruin men brought upon their souls.

Gradually the events of the preceding night crept with silent, blood-stained feet into his brain and reconstructed themselves there with terrible distinctness. He winced at the memory of all that he had suffered, and for a moment the same curious feeling of loathing for Basil Hallward that had made him kill him as he sat in the chair came back to him, and he grew cold with passion. The dead man was still sitting there, too, and in the sunlight now. How horrible that was! Such hideous things were for the darkness, not for the day.

he himself would creep upstairs to the locked room, open the door with the key that never left him now, and stand, with a mirror, in front of the portrait that Basil Hallward had painted of him, looking now at the evil and aging face on the canvas, and now at the fair young face that laughed back at him from the polished glass.

Of course I could never let you know anything about this. It would have been impossible. You would not have understood it. I hardly understood it myself. I only knew that I had seen perfection face to face, and that the world had become wonderful to my eyes— too wonderful, perhaps, for in such mad worships there is peril, the peril of losing them, no less than the peril of keeping them.

Lord Henry looked at him. Yes, he was certainly wonderfully handsome, with his finely curved scarlet lips, his frank blue eyes, his crisp gold hair. There was something in his face that made one trust him at once. All the candour of youth was there, as well as all youth's passionate purity. One felt that he had kept himself unspotted from the world. No wonder Basil Hallward worshipped him.

and the portrait that Basil Hallward had painted of him would be a guide to him through life, would be to him what holiness is to some, and conscience to others, and the fear of God to us all. There were opiates for remorse, drugs that could lull the moral sense to sleep. but here was a visible symbol of the degradation of sin. Here was an ever-present sign of the ruin men brought upon their souls.

With a stifled sob the lad leaped from the couch, and, rushing over to Hallward, tore the knife out of his hand, and flung it to the end of the studio. “Don’t, Basil, don’t!” he cried. “It would be murder!

Dorian Gray frowned and turned his head away. He could not help liking the tall, graceful young man who was standing by him. His romantic, olive-coloured face and worn expression interested him. There was something in his low languid voice that was absolutely fascinating. His cool, white, flower-like hands, even, had a curious charm. They moved, as he spoke, like music, and seemed to have a language of their own. But he felt afraid of him, and ashamed of being afraid. Why had it been left for a stranger to reveal him to himself ? He had known Basil Hallward for months, but the friendship between them had never altered him. Suddenly there had come some one across his life who seemed to have disclosed to him life's mystery. And, yet, what was there to be afraid of ? He was not a schoolboy or a girl. It was absurd to be frightened.

The sense of his own beauty came on him like a revelation. He had never felt it before. Basil Hallward’s compliments had seemed to him to be merely the charming exaggerations of friendship. He had listened to them, laughed at them, forgotten them. They had not influenced his nature. Then had come Lord Henry Wotton with his strange panegyric on youth, his terrible warning of its brevity. That had stirred him at the time, and now, as he stood gazing at the shadow of his own loveliness, the full reality of the description flashed across him. Yes, there would be a day when his face would be wrinkled and wizen, his eyes dim and colourless, the grace of his figure broken and deformed. The scarlet would pass away from his lips, and the gold steal from his hair. The life that was to make his soul would mar his body. He would become dreadful, hideous, and uncouth. As

She could still be his wife. His unreal and selfish love would yield to some higher influence, would be transformed into some nobler passion, and the portrait that Basil Hallward had painted of him would be a guide to him through life, would be to him what holiness is to some, and conscience to others, and the fear of God to us all. There were opiates for remorse, drugs that could lull the moral sense to sleep. But here was a visible symbol of the degradation of sin. Here was an ever-present sign of the ruin men brought upon their souls.

Of course I could never let you know anything about this. It would have been impossible. You would not have understood it. I hardly understood it myself. I only knew that I had seen perfection face to face, and that the world had become wonderful to my eyes— too wonderful, perhaps, for in such mad worships there is peril, the peril of losing them, no less than the peril of keeping them.

You would not have understood it. I hardly understood it myself. I only knew that I had seen perfection face to face, and that the world had become wonderful to my eyes— too wonderful, perhaps, for in such mad worships there is peril, the peril of losing them, no less than the peril of keeping them.

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.

Dar frumusetea, adevarata frumusete, sfarseste acolo unde apare expresivitatea intelectuala. In sine, intelectul este o maniera de exagerare si distruge armonia oricarui chip. In momentul in care te asezi sa gandesti, devii doar nas sau frunte sau ceva respingator. Uita-te la oamenii de succes din oricare dintre profesiunile intelectuale. Sunt perfect hidosi ! ‘’ 2.‘’Atunci cand imi plac enorm unii oameni, nu le spun numele altora. E ca si cum as renunta la o parte din ei. De la o vreme cultiv discretia. Se pare ca este acel lucru care face viata moderna misterioasa sau incredibil de minunata. Cel mai banal lucru devine incantator daca il ascunzi. Cand plec din oras nu spun nimanui unde ma duc. Daca as face-o, as pierde intreaga placere. E un obicei prostesc, as zice, dar se pare ca aduce o mare doza de aventura in propria-ti existenta. Imi inchipui ca ma crezi teribil de necugetat.’’ 3.‘’Constiinta si lasitatea sunt unul si acelasi lucru, Basil draga. Constiinta e doar numele comercial. Asta-i tot.’’ 4.‘’- Poetii nu sunt atat de scrupulosi ca tine. Ei stiu bine cat de utila este pasiunea pentru a putea publica o carte. In zilele noastre o inima distrusa se lasa tiparita in mai multe editii. -Ii urasc pentru asta, striga Hallward. Artistul trebuie sa creeze lucruri frumoase, dar nu trebuie sa puna nimic din viata lui in acestea. Traim intr-o epoca in care oamenii trateaza arta de parca ar fi o forma de autobiografie. Am pierdut sensul abstract al frumosului. ‘’ 5.’’Simt o placere cu totul ciudata in a-i spune lucruri de care stiu ca-mi va parea rau ca i le-am spus. De regula el se poarta fermecator; stam in atelier si vorbim despre o multime de lucruri. Totusi, din cand in cand e groaznic de necugetat si pare ca-i produce o mare placere sa ma faca sa sufar. In acele momente simt ca mi-am dat in intregime sufletul cuiva care il trateaza de parca ar fi o floare de pus la butoniera, asa, ceva decorativ care sa-i incante vanitatea, un ornament pentru o zi de vara.’’ 6.’’ Pentru ca a influenta pe cineva inseamna sa-i dai propriul suflet. Cel influentat nu mai gandeste cu propriile ganduri si nu mai arde cu propriile-i pasiuni. Pentru el virtutile nu mai sunt reale. Pacatele, daca exista intr-adevar pacate, sunt imprumutate. El devine ecoul muzicii altcuiva, un actor care joaca un rol ce nu a fost scris pentru el. Scopul vietii e dezvoltarea sinelui. Atingerea propriei naturi intr-un mod perfect-iata pentru ce suntem aici, pe pamant, fiecare dintre noi. Azi, oamenii se tem de ei insisi. Au uitat suprema datorie, datoria fata de sine.’’ 7. ‘’Pentru a-ti recastiga tineretea trebuie doar sa-ti repeti nebuniile. (…..)Azi cei mai multi oameni mor dintr-un soi de bun-simt infiorator si descopera atunci cand e prea tarziu ca singurele lucruri pe care nu le regreta sunt greselile comise. (…) Se juca cu idea si o continua cu obstinatie; o zvarlea in aer si o transforma, o lasa sa-i scape si o prindea din nou, o facea sa iradieze de fantezie si ii dadea apoi aripi de paradox.’’ 8. ‘’Femeile banale nu-ti starnesc imaginatia. Sunt limitate la secolul in care traiesc. Ghicesti ce gandesc la fel de usor cum le cunosti palariile. Le poti descoperi usor. Nu au nici un pic de mister. Au zambete stereotipe si maniere la moda. Sunt destul de transparente.’’ 9. ‘’Tocmai pasiunile asupra carora ne inselam ne tiranizeaza cu mai multa forta. Cele mai debile motive sunt cele de a caror natura suntem constienti. De cele mai multe ori se intampla ca, atunci cand credem ca facem experiente pe altii, sa facem de fapt experiente pe noi.’’ 10.’’Sufletul e o realitate teribila. Poate fi vandut si cumparat si pus la vanzare. Poate fi otravit sau adus la perfectiune. Toti avem un suflet. Stiu.

Dorian Gray frowned and turned his head away. He could not help liking the tall, graceful young man who was standing by him. His romantic, olive-coloured face and worn expression interested him. There was something in his low languid voice that was absolutely fascinating. His cool, white, flowerlike hands, even, had a curious charm. They moved, as he spoke, like music, and seemed to have a language of their own. But he felt afraid of him, and ashamed of being afraid. Why had it been left for a stranger to reveal him to himself? He had known Basil Hallward for months, but the friendship between them had never altered him. Suddenly there had come some one across his life who seemed to have disclosed to him life’s mystery.