«Портрет Дориана Грея / The Picture of Dorian Gray» kitobidan iqtiboslar

Тот, кто не прилагает ни малейших усилий, не смеет завидовать таланту. Неумехи даже не представляют, сколько времени и сил тратят умехи, чтобы добиться цели.

Anyone you love must be wonderful.

Я люблю слушать сплетни о других, а сплетни обо мне меня не интересуют. В них нет прелести новизны.

If you don’t want me ever to look at your picture again, I won’t. I have always you to look at.

He was sitting at the piano, with his back to them, and he was turning the pages of some music by Schumann.

“Have you really a very bad influence, Lord Henry?

Sibyl is the only thing I care about.” “That is the reason, I suppose, that you never have dinner with me now. I thought

“Because to influence someone is to give them your soul. Each person must have his own personality.” “Just turn your head a little more to the right, Dorian, like a good boy,” said the painter. He was

than a green bronze figure.” The painter stared in amazement. It was so unlike Dorian to speak like that. What had happened? He seemed quite angry. His face was flushed and his cheeks burning. “You will always like this painting. But how long will you like me? Until I start getting old. Lord Henry Wotton is perfectly right. When I lose my beauty, I will lose everything. I shall kill myself before I get old.” Hallward turned white, and caught his hand. “Dorian! Dorian!” he cried. “Don’t talk like that, I have never had a friend like you, and I will never have another. How can you be jealous of a painting? You are more beautiful than any work of art.” “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?” Hot tears came into his eyes as he threw himself on the sofa. “You did this, Harry,” said the painter, angrily. Lord Henry shook his head. “It is the real Dorian Gray – that is all.” “Harry, I can’t argue with two of my best friends at once. Between you both you have made me hate the best piece of work I have ever done. What is it but canvas and colour?[19] I will destroy it.” Dorian Gray watched as Hallward walked over to the painting-table and picked up a knife. The boy jumped from the sofa, tore the knife from Hallward’s hand and threw it across the room. “Don’t, Basil, don’t!”

Often, Dorian left dinner parties early and hurried home to see his portrait. Sometimes he went on holiday, then hurried home to see his portrait. Again, on returning home he himself would creep upstairs to the locked room, open the door with the key that never left him now, and stand, with