Portrait Of Dorian Gray Quotes

Every portrait that is painted with feeling is a portrait of the artist, not of the sitter.

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.

Poets are not so scrupulous as you are. They know how useful passion is for publication. Nowadays a broken heart will run to many editions." "I hate them for it," cried Hallward. "An artist should create beautiful things, but should put nothing of his own life into them. We live in an age when men treat art as if it were meant to be a form of autobiography. We have lost the abstract sense of beauty. Some day I will show the world what is it; and for that the world shall never see my portrait of Dorian Gray.

I am jealous of everything whose beauty does not die. I am jealous of the portrait you have painted of me. Why should it keep what I must lose? Every moment that passes takes something from me and gives something to it. Oh, if it were only the other way! If the picture could change, and I could be always what I am now! Why did you paint it? It will mock me some day—mock me horribly!

Inteligence lives longer than beauty.

Surely a good therapist should produce a Dorian Gray-style portrait from under the couch so the patient can see the person they really are.

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.

How sad it is!" murmured Dorian Gray with his eyes still fixed upon his own portrait. "How sad it is! I shall grow old, and horrible, and dreadful. But this picture will remain always young. It will never be older than this particular day of June… . If it were only the other way! If it were I who was to be always young, and the picture that was to grow old! For that—for that—I would give everything! Yes, there is nothing in the whole world I would not give! I would give my soul for that!

What the worm was to the corpse, his sins would be to the painted image on the canvas. They would mar its beauty, and eat away its grace. they would defile it, and make it shameful. And yet the thing would still live on. It would be always alive. (Dorian Gray regarding his portrait)

It is in the brain, and the brain only, that the great sins of the world take place also. You, Mr. Gray, you yourself, with yourrose-red youth and your rose-white boyhood, you have had passions that have made you afraid, thoughts that have filled you with terror, day-dreams and sleeping dreams whose mere memory might stain your cheek with shame…

When he takes the knife to the canvass the servants find him lying dead with a knife through is heart and "withered, wrinkled, and loathsome of visage." and the portrait "in all the wonders of his exquisite youth and beauty." p 349

When they entered they found, hanging upon the wall, a splendid portrait of their master as they had last seen him, in all the wonder of his exquisite youth and beauty. Lying on the floor was a dead man, in evening dress, with a knife in his heart. He was withered, wrinkled, and loathsome of visage. It was not till they had examined the rings that they recognised who it was.

This portrait would be to him the most magical of mirrors. As it had revealed to him his own body, so it would reveal to him his own soul.

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 colored canvas, reveals himself.

You look ill,” Matthew observed. “Is it my dancing? Is it me personally?” “Perhaps I’m nervous,” she said. “Lucie did say you didn’t like many people.” Matthew gave a sharp, startled laugh, before schooling his face back into a look of lazy amusement. “Did she? Lucie’s a chatterbox.” “But not a liar,” she said. “Well, fear not. I do not dislike you. I hardly know you,” said Matthew. “I do know your brother. He made my life miserable at school, and Christopher’s, and James’s.” “Alastair and I are very different,” Cordelia said. She didn’t want to say more than that. It felt disloyal to Alastair. “I like Oscar Wilde, for instance, and he does not.” The corner of Matthew’s mouth curled up. “I see you go directly for the soft underbelly, Cordelia Carstairs. Have you really read Oscar’s work?” “Just Dorian Gray,” Cordelia confessed. “It gave me nightmares.” “I should like to have a portrait in the attic,” Matthew mused, “that would show all my sins, while I stayed young and beautiful. And not only for sinning purposes—imagine being able to try out new fashions on it. I could paint the portrait’s hair blue and see how it looks.” “You don’t need a portrait. You are young and beautiful,” Cordelia pointed out. “Men are not beautiful. Men are handsome,” objected Matthew. “Thomas is handsome. You are beautiful,” said Cordelia, feeling the imp of the perverse stealing over her. Matthew was looking stubborn. “James is beautiful too,” she added. “He was a very unprepossessing child,” said Matthew. “Scowly, and he hadn’t grown into his nose.” “He’s grown into everything now,” Cordelia said. Matthew laughed, again as if he was surprised to be doing it. “That was a very shocking observation, Cordelia Carstairs. I am shocked.

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 jealous, if old men are ever capable of any emotion.

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.

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,

She was the portrait to his father’s Dorian Gray – all the anxiety you’d expect him to feel was manifest in her.

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.

Then why won't you exhibit his portrait?' asked Lord Henry. 'Because without intending it, I have put into it some expression of all this curious artistic idolatry, of which, of course, I have never cared to speak to him. He knows nothing about it. He shall never know anything about it. But the world might guess it; and I will not bare my soul to their shallow, prying eyes. My heart shall never be put under their microscope. There is too much of myself in the thing Harry - too much of myself!

you met me, flattered me, and taught me to be vain of my good looks. One day you introduced me to a friend of yours, who explained to me the wonder of youth, and you finished a portrait of me that revealed to me the wonder of beauty. In a mad moment that, even now, I don't know whether I regret or not, I made a wish, perhaps you would call it a prayer… .

How sad it is! I shall grow old, and horrible, and dreadful. But this portrait will remain always young.

was the living death of his own soul that troubled him. Basil had painted the portrait that had marred his

than being talked about, and that is not being talked about. A portrait like this would

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.

I warned her that her lover is the Picture of Dorian Gray but in reverse. Instead of the portrait taking in the ugliness and sin so he can be and do whatever he wants Instead he lets himself be ugly so the image can stay pristine - Dorian Grey

Every portrait that is painted with feeling is a portrait of the artist, not of the sitter. The sitter is merely the accident, the ocassion. It is not he who is revelead by the painter; it is rather the painter who, on the coloured canvas , reveals himself.

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

Upon the walls of the lonely locked room where he had spent so much of his boyhood, he had hung with his own hands the terrible portrait whose changing features showed him the real degradation of his life, and in front of it had draped the purple-and-gold pall as a curtain.

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.

The portrait was to bear the burden of his shame: that was all.

But beauty, real beauty ends where an intellectual expression begins. Intellect is in itself a mode of exaggeration, and destroys the harmony of any face.

Ceux qui sont fidèles connaissent seulement le côté trivial de l’amour ; c’est la trahison qui en connaît les tragédies.

He looks like a Cute Guy who needs a Dorian Gray portrait, because his rotten personality is starting to show.

Un livre n’est point moral ou immoral. Il est bien ou mal écrit. C’est tout.

Being natural is simply a pose, and the most irritating pose I know.” ''Doğal olmak yapmacıklıktan başka bir şey değildir ve bana göre yapmacıkların en sinir bozucusudur.

L'artiste est celui qui crée des choses de beauté.

Votre art ce fut votre vie. Vous vous êtes mis vous-même en musique. Vos jours sont vos sonnets

I am jeal­ous of everything whose beauty does not die. I am jeal­ous of the por­trait you have painted of me. Why should it keep what I must lose?

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.

But in reality, with Mr. Ellison there is an essence of probity about him; unlike Dorian Grey, him and his hidden portrait are both wonderful. When he speaks there is a certain intonation he gets that reveals so much about him, that you can't help but to feel rapt, and so few get to hear his unspoken thought because they are fixated on the bling and the big show.

Nous avons besoin, pour la lutte effrayante de la vie, de quelque chose qui demeure, et nous nous emplissons l’esprit de ruines et de faits, dans l’espérance niaise de garder notre place.

It is the face of my soul." "Christ! what a thing I must have worshipped! It has the eyes of a devil." "Each of us has heaven and hell in him, Basil," cried Dorian with a wild gesture of despair.

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.

I had drawn you as Paris in dainty armour, and as Adonis with huntsman's cloak and polished boar-spear. Crowned with heavy lotus-blossoms you had sat on the prow of Adrian's barge, gazing across the green turbid Nile. You had leaned over the still pool of some Greek woodland and seen in the water's silent silver the marvel of your own face. And it had all been what art should be—unconscious, ideal, and remote. One day, a fatal day I sometimes think, I determined to paint a wonderful portrait of you as you actually are, not in the costume of dead ages, but in your own dress and in your own time.

En cuanto a una vida echada a perder, no hay vida echada a perder más que aquella cuyo crecimiento queda detenido. Si quieres destrozar un carácter, lo único que tienes que hacer es intentar reformarlo

Nous pouvons pardonner à un homme d’avoir fait une chose utile aussi longtemps qu’il ne l’admire pas. La seule excuse d’avoir fait une chose inutile est de l’admirer intensément. L’Art est tout à fait inutile.

Yes, he remembered it perfectly. He had uttered a mad wish that he himself might remain young, and the portrait grow old; that his own beauty might be untarnished, and the face on the canvas bear the burden of his passions and his sins; that the painted image might be seared with the lines of suffering and thought, and that he might keep all the delicate bloom and loveliness of his then just conscious boyhood. Surely his wish had not been fulfilled? Such things were impossible. It

How sad it is!” murmured Dorian Gray, with his eyes still fixed upon his own portrait. “How sad it is! I shall grow old, and horrible, and dreadful. But this picture will remain always young. It will never be older than this particular day of June.… If it were only the other way! If it were I who was to be always young, and the picture that was to grow old! For that—for that—I would give everything! Yes, there is nothing in the whole world I would not give! I would give my soul for that!

How sad it is!" murmured Dorian Gray with his eyes still fixed upon his own portrait. "How sad it is! I shall grow old, and horrible, and dreadful. But this picture will remain always young. It will never be older than this particular day of June.... If it were only the other way! If it were I who was to be always young, and the picture that was to grow old! For that--for that--I would give everything! Yes, there is nothing in the whole world I would not give! I would give my soul for that!

For there would be a real pleasure in watching it. He would be able to follow his mind into its secret places. This portrait would be to him the most magical of mirrors. As it had revealed to him his own body, so it would reveal to him his own soul.

En la actualidad las personas se tienen miedo. Han olvidado el mayor de todos los deberes, lo que cada uno se debe a sí mismo. Son caritativos, por supuesto. Dan de comer al hambriento y visten al desnudo. Pero sus almas pasan hambre y ellos mismos están desnudos.

Yes, life had decided that for him—life, and his own infinite curiosity about life. Eternal youth, infinite passion, pleasures subtle and secret, wild joys and wilder sins—he was to have all these things. The portrait was to bear the burden of his shame; that was all.

Mon cher enfant, aucune femme n’est géniale. Les femmes sont un sexe décoratif. Elles n’ont jamais rien à dire, mais elles le disent d’une façon charmante. Les femmes représentent le triomphe de la matière sur l’intelligence, de même que les hommes représentent le triomphe de l’intelligence sur les mœurs.

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.

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

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. a

When they entered, they found hanging upon the wall a splendid portrait of their master as they had last seen him, in all the wonder of his exquisite youth and beauty. Lying on the floor was a dead man, in evening dress, with a knife in his heart. He was withered, wrinkled, and loathsome of visage. It was not till they had examined the rings that they recognized who it was.

Harry, 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.

He had uttered a mad wish that he himself might remain young, and the portrait grow old; that his own beauty might be untarnished, and the face on the canvas bear the burden of his passions and his sins; that the painted image might be seared with the lines of suffering and thought, and that he might keep all the delicate bloom and loveliness of his then just conscious boyhood.

I am jealous of everything whose beauty does not die. I am jealous of the portrait you have painted of me. Why should it keep what I must lose? Every moment that passes takes something from me, and gives something to it. Oh, if it were only the other way! If the picture could change, and I could be always what I am now- Why did you paint it? It will mock me someday - mock me horribly!

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.

He had uttered a mad wish that he himself might remain young, and the portrait grow old; that his own beauty might be untarnished, and the face on the canvas bear the burden of his passions and his sins; that the painted image might be seared with the lines of suffering and thought, and that he might keep all the delicate bloom and loveliness of his then just conscious boyhood. Surely his wish had not been fulfilled? Such things were impossible.

I am jealous of everything whose beauty does not die. I am jealous of the portrait you have painted of me. Why should it keep what I must lose? Every moment that passes takes something from me, and gives something to it. Oh, if it were only the other way! If the picture could change, and I could be always what I am now! Why did you paint it? It will mock me some day-mock me horribly!" The hot tears welled into his eyes; he tore his hand away, and, flinging himself on the divan, he buried his face in the cushions, as though he was praying.

Ne gaspillez pas l’or de vos jours, en écoutant les sots essayant d’arrêter l’inéluctable défaite et gardez-vous de l’ignorant, du commun et du vulgaire... C’est le but maladif, l’idéal faux de notre âge. Vivez ! vivez la merveilleuse vie qui est en vous ! N’en laissez rien perdre ! Cherchez de nouvelles sensations, toujours ! Que rien ne vous effraie... Un nouvel Hédonisme, voilà ce que le siècle demande. Vous pouvez en être le tangible symbole. Il n’est rien avec votre personnalité que vous ne puissiez faire. Le monde vous appartient pour un temps

هل صحيح ما يقولة بازيل عنك يا لورد هنرى من أن لك تأثيرا خبيثا فى الناس . التأثير الصالح لا وجود له يا مستر جراى ، فكل تأثير يتنافى مع الأخلاق، أعنى اذا أردت أن تحكم حكما فعليا ان تأثيرك فى شخص ما معناه أنك تسبغ روحك عليه، مما يملأ رأسه بأفكار ليست أفكاره ويملأ قلبه بعواطف ليست فى طبعه ويجعل من رذائله رذائل مستعارة من الغير، ويصبح صدى يردد ترنيمه رجل اّخر، أو ممثلا يلعب دورا لم يكتب له. ان غايةالحياه تقدم الذات وما خلق كل منا الا لينمى ملكاته ويصون طبيعته على الوجه الأكمل ولكن الناس فى هذه الأيام يخافون من أنفسهم وينسون أن واجب الانسان الأول هو واجبه نحو نفسه، فتراهم يطعمون الجياع ويكسون العراه وأرواحهم جائعة عارية. ولابد من أحد أمرين فاما أن شعبنا قد فقد شجاعته أو أن الشجاعة لم تكن من صفاته فى يوم من الأيام فنحن عبيد الخوف : الخوف من المجتمع هو جوهر الأخلاق، والخوف من الله هو جوهر الدين

I had drawn you as Paris in dainty armour, and as Adonis with huntsman's cloak and polished boar-spear. Crowned with heavy lotus-blossoms you had sat on the prow of Adrian's barge, gazing across the green turbid Nile. You had leaned over the still pool of some Greek woodland and seen in the water's silent silver the marvel of your own face. And it had all been what art should be—unconscious, ideal, and remote. One day, a fatal day I sometimes think, I determined to paint a wonderful portrait of you as you actually are, not in the costume of dead ages, but in your own dress and in your own time. Whether it was the realism of the method, or the mere wonder of your own personality, thus directly presented to me without mist or veil, I cannot tell. But I know that as I worked at it, every flake and film and colour seemed to me to reveal my secret. I grew afraid that others would know of my idolatry.

Jenks and I stood there like statues watching him twitch, his eyes rolling up in his head. He clutched at his clothes pulling the wooden pole they hung from down on top of him. Slowly his right hand came scrambling out away from his body to clutch at my left leg. Without thinking I shoved my crucifix at him and he pulled his hand back with a hiss, shielding his face again. As quickly as I could, I dug my tubes of Holy Water out of my coat pocket and emptied them on his head. He shrieked again and clawed at his face. Jenks followed suit, pouring his two vials on Skorzeny's body and legs. Skorzeny started to foam and bubble before our eyes. I was paralyzed. I couldn't quite believe what was happening. Those books hadn't described any of this. I was feeling dizzy and sick. The shrieks turned to groans and a gurgling deep in his throat. He pulled his hands away from his face and it looked like the disintegrating Portrait of Dorian Gray. I looked over to Jenks who had an odd expression on his face. I looked over to Jenks who had on odd expression on his face. He motioned to me and reached for my left hand which, I noticed, was still clutching the airline hag with the stake and hammer in it. I dropped it and he grabbed it off the floor, moving over to the smoking form still squirming in the closet which smelled even more foul than before, and oozing a greenish yellow pus from the crumpled clothing on his scarecrow frame. Jenks looked back at me and handed me the stake and hammer. 'Go ahead. This was your idea. Finish it.' I declined, turning away. Jenks spun me around violently and thrust the stake into my left hand. He pushed me toward what was left of Skorzeny and forced me to my knees. He forced my hand toward Skorzeny, positioning the stake over the man's chest. Then he stuck the hammer in my right hand. 'Do it, you gutless sonofabitch. Finish it... now!' And he stepped away. I looked at him and back at Skorzeny. Then I gave one vicious swing and hit the stake dead center. The thing made a gurgling grunt, like a pig snuffling for food, and started to regurgitate a blackish fluid from its mouth. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath and hit the stake three more times. Then I fell back and threw up. When I looked back, Skorzeny's hands, or what was left of them, clutched at the stake trying to pull it out. Suddenly, he emitted a kind of moaning, sucking sound, gagged and more bile-colored liquid flecked with black and red came coiling up in a viscous rope like some evil worm from his mouth. And he stopped moving, his hands still clutching the stake. Then a sort of gaseous mist started to rise from his body and it was so much worse than the original smell that I pushed Jenks aside and ran from the house. I ran all the way to a patrol car where I slumped against the left front wheel as Jenks slowly strolled toward me. He walked past me, ignoring me, and opened his trunk, taking out a couple of small gas cans, and headed back to the house. I wasn't paying much attention until he left the house again and I saw it was aflame.

The coexistence of these two sharply contrasting personalities within the same individual is as apparent in literature as in life: Dorian Gray, the handsome, witty, man-about-town, keeps his portrait hidden where no one can see it, for it bears all the features of his vicious secret life; Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde are the same man, by turns respectable physician and monstrous ogre; the popular TV personality with the compassionate manner and caring smile can be a hysterical termagant at home with her family.

Los únicos artistas que he conocido que sean personalmente interesantes son los malos artistas. Los buenos, existen sólo en lo que hacen, y por lo tanto son completamente faltos de interés en lo que son. Un gran poeta, un auténtico gran poeta, es la menos poética de todas las criaturas. Pero los mediocres son fascinantes.

Si Sibyl es capaz de dar un alma a quienes han vivido sin ella, si crea un sentimiento de belleza en personas cuyas vidas han sido sórdidas y miserables, si los libera de su egoísmo y les presta lágrimas por sufrimientos que no son suyos, se merece toda tu adoración, se merece la adoración del mundo entero.

Upon the walls of the lonely locked room where he had spent so much of his boyhood, he had his own hands the terrible portrait whose changing features showed him the real degradation of his life, and in front of it had draped the purple-and-gold pall as a curtain. For weeks he would not go there, would forget the hideous painted thing, and get back his light heart, his wonderful joyousness, his passionate absorption in mere existence. Then, suddenly, some night he would creep out of the house, go down to dreadful places near Blue Gate Fields, and stay there, day after day, until he was driven away. On his return he would sit in front of the picture, sometimes loathing it and himself, but filled, at other times, with that pride of individualism that is half the fascination of sin, and smiling with secret pleasure, at the misshapen shadow that had to bear the burden that should have been his own.

En el mundo solo hay una cosa peor que ser comidilla de la gente, y es no serlo.

Cuanto más sincero sea un hombre, más puramente intelectual será la idea pues en ese caso no estará teñida por sus deseos, apetencias o prejuicios.

La armonía entre alma y cuerpo... ¡Y es decir mucho! Hemos cometido la locura de separar lo uno con lo otro, y hemos inventado un realismo vulgar y una idealidad vacía.

Los poetas no son tan escrupulosos como tú. Saben lo útil que es una pasión para el éxito. Actualmente un corazón roto consigue muchas ediciones.

Influir en una persona es darle el alma propia.

El objetivo de la vida es el autodesarrollo.

La única forma de liberarnos de la tentación es ceder a ella.

El cuerpo peca una vez, y se acabó, porque la acción es una forma de purificación.

Sólo los sentidos pueden curar el alma, como sólo el alma puede curar los sentidos.

Un nuevo hedonismo es lo que nuestro siglo necesita.

Se dedicó al estudio serio del gran arte aristocrático de no hacer nada.

Los superficiales son los que sólo aman una vez en la vida. Lo que ellos llaman lealtad, su fidelidad, lo llamo yo letargo de la costumbre o falta de imaginación.

Viven la poesía que no consigue escribir. Los otros, escriben la poesía que no se atreven a realizar.

¿Llamas pasado al día de ayer?

Te convertiste en la encarnación visible de ese ideal nunca contemplado cuya memoria nos acosa a los artistas como un sueño exquisito. Te adoraba.

Nadie encuentra en la vida dos seres ideales. Pocos llegan a dar con uno solo.

A veces no sabía si estaba leyendo los éxtasis espirituales de algún santo medieval o las confesiones morbosas de un pecador moderno.

Los hombres sienten un instinto natural de terror hacia las pasiones y sensaciones más fuertes que ellos, y son conscientes de que las comparten con las formas de existencia inferiores.

Su auténtico objetivo tenía que ser la experiencia misma, y no los frutos de la experiencia, fueran estos dulces o amargos.

Te voy a enseñar mi alma, vas a ver lo que creías que sólo Dios puede ver.

Había pecados que resultaban más interesantes al recordarlos que al hacerlos.

El alma es una realidad terrible. Puedo uno comprarla, venderla, traficar con ella. Puede envenenarla o hacerla perfecta. Cada uno de nosotros tiene un alma. Lo sé bien.

Ce n'est pas lui qui est révélé par le peintre ; c'est plutôt le peintre qui, sur la toile colorée, se révèle lui-même. La raison pour laquelle je n'exhiberai pas ce portrait consiste dans la terreur que j'ai de montrer, par lui, le secret de mon âme.

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.

A cynic is a man who knows the price of everything and the value of nothing.

I najobičnija stvar ima svoju draž, ako je krijemo pred drugima.

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 colour canvas reveals himself. The reason I will not exhibit this picture is that I am afraid I have shown in it the secret of my own soul