The Picture Of Dorian Gray Journal Analysis

Rachna Shah
The Picture of Dorian Gray

Journal Entry: The Time I Was Called a Cradle Robber vs. Tabula Rasa
Dorian Gray is simply too young to be in his twenties.
His sapphire blue eyes are wells-magnetic. The boyish crinkling of his eyes when he smiles-oh, his smile is too genuine to be contrived. There is something brilliant in the pureness that radiates about him. If not for his bowtie, I would have thought he had lived in the countryside all his life-what a terrible waste of his Youth!
I don’t quite remember being Young-other than the simple, free joy of it. I would look outside and be enthralled by a caterpillar climbing a tree. I would spend hours and hours watching its movements. Everything had been bold and bright and new. And welcoming,
Change-they still do. Experiences have been reduced to truths that transcend: there is no excitement in routine. I would die of ennui if I was always on time. Thus, I have made a habit of always being five minutes late.
Basil is focused on the picture of Dorian-the golden boy on the silver pedestal. Even if he was to slip off into the abyss, Basil could not perceive him differently. He is blind to the faults of Beauty. No fault of his, of course. It is simply human nature.
When we leave Basil’s house, I reach into my pocket. Dorian looks puzzled when I offer him a cigarette, as though he doesn’t know what to do with it. The very notion brings me to tears-of laughter. When he does finally light it, his eyes are fearful-but only for an instant before he takes my advice and his eyes roll back into his head with pleasure.
I smile, shaking my head, amazed at my new discovery. He’s such a gem, really. All these years that Basil has hidden him from the world were a wasted opportunity-for Dorian most of all. A boy like him belongs to the world. I’ve never met someone so untarnished. I almost go dizzy with excitement thinking of all the things I could teach
How could I forget about Colors? Dorian has not seen anything but shades of white. What bliss it must be to be introduced to Red! I feel myself growing a little envious.
The opera is splendid this time of year. We wouldn’t go there to listen to the voices, of course-the voices are simply awful-but there are always new people to be introduced to and routinely forget. Yet depending on people for amusement is a risky venture. The food is always more reliable. Organic lambs doused in fresh preservatives, béarnaise sauce drizzled over a côte de boeuf: what more could one ask for? (Love.)
But reliability is a burden. To spice things up a bit, we could blindfold ourselves, spin around, and choose a destination-to the dog races, perhaps, to watch the men bark at each other’s throats and the dogs have words. Or there is always the option of taking on another identity for a few hours-long enough to forget the past but short enough to maintain one’s own sense of self. Maintenance is key. We could traverse the Thames and spend a night with a woman of the East End. I know a good number of gentlemen who go to the East End to study