Book review — ‘The Picture of Dorian Gray’ by Oscar Wilde

Published under this cover by Penguin books

I feel when reviewing a book such as this, I must either come out with some new and unthought-of insights into the meaning of the novel, revolutionary perspective or — dare I say it — extreme criticism, and perhaps derision at the long-lasting hype over such mediocrity.

I’m not sure I can offer any of these things. However, I would hope that if someone wants my thoughts, they would come here — if you want the views of the many more eloquent academics that come before me, they’re readily available online, I’m sure. My insights are ones already much explored, my perspective far from revolutionary and as for derision … I just can’t. This novel was wonderful. So many facets of the work came together to dazzle, stupefy and chill the blood of the reader. What immediately catches the attention is the prose — delicate, evocative, florid, yet at no point descending into the overbearing lectures of other antiquated authors that have, just recently, been the bane of my existence.* The book is an absolute joy to read, in a purely linguistic sense, from start to finish. If you let yourself become absorbed in the language, the story flows.

Of course, as always my attention is captured most easily by the philosophical aspects, and in this area the book is a triumph indeed. Even aside from the heady language, the value of this book is within the controversial, subversive, psychologically challenging philosophy expressed. One is never sure if Wilde is enamoured with, or abhors such cynical nihilism — an argument could be made for both, simultaneously. The nihilistic aspect, explored rather seductively, is ultimately condemned — nonetheless it is written as an argument, a persuasion, into harsh, logical, witty and blunt mannerisms and a casual, perhaps nonexistent, stance on morality in any traditional sense. It appears to be Wilde’s exploration of the allure of such methods of thought, yet as attractive as it is written to be, the consequences are clear.

The plot, is one widely known, at least in part, through the famous nature of the classic, as well as the many adaptations of the work for stage and film. However, spoilers are a concern for many, so I will simply say that this book is not for the easily disturbed — though the sinister nature of the book lies not in open terror or violence, but a disturbing and slow rot of the soul, which I found unnerving to say the least. It’s horror lay in psychological unease, no shocks or starts. But this form of fear lingers long after closing the book.

As for the subtext, this book was known for being what began trouble for Oscar Wilde. Beyond the nihilistic cynicism, there is much to do with love in the book — whether of others or one’s self. However, it is easy to spot an extremely homoromantic tendency among the characters of the book, which led to public suspicion of Wilde himself. Of course, as a retrospective analysist  of such ideas, it’s simpler to connect Wilde’s known sexuality to the views of his characters, but in the 19th century this still lead to Wilde’s trial and imprisonment for ‘unnatural acts’. Leaving behind such outdated controversy, the descriptions of character and personal/inner beauty within the book are truly moving at some points, though the book was certainly never a romance of any kind.

I must confess that I disliked the vast majority of the characters, but in such a novel I hardly expected otherwise. What I adored was how they yet seemed so human, in the worst ways. Not monsters, just far too human. Then the beautiful prose, the beautiful and horrifying story of morality and the soul — and the corruption of both — makes ‘The Picture of Dorian Gray’ one of the most rewarding books I have ever had the pleasure to read, and I’m sure my (already battered second-hand copy) will inevitably suffer through many a re-read, and cause much reflection.

*  ‘The Hunchback of Notre Dame’ by Victor Hugo. Really good book thus far, but with no sense of brevity or conciseness. If I have to hear the history and geography of Paris one more time …

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Apologies for the lack of posts lately, but I was busy. Exams and such. But that’s all over and I have my results and I did pretty well! (*cheers*). But I’m back now and hoping to post with much regularity this summer!

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Book Review — ‘The Name of the Wind’ by Patrick Rothfuss

Image“It was night again. The Waystone Inn lay in silence, and it was a silence of three parts.”

So it began, and I was hooked.

A page-long prologue begins this story, and you feel a shiver of anticipation, a burning curiosity, a certain knowledge that what follows will be something wonderful.

‘The Name of the Wind’, by Patrick Rothfuss, was recommended to me by a good friend months ago. Our tastes differ on occasion, yet coincide often enough to be interested by his profession that this was his favourite book. He also sent me links to Rothfuss’ blog every time we talked online. Still, I haven’t been reading as much lately through lack of time, lack of concentration and general laziness. I’m working on it. I was wary when I saw how large this book was. I have been a fan of fantasy, but my problem with it is often that it relies a bit too heavily on my curiosity lasting long enough for the story to be begin properly. This large epic fantasy seemed like an investment of my time and energy, as well as the oft-unwilling efforts of my scarce concentration. I was wrong. This was impossible not to read.

I read the prologue a week ago, because I saw it was only a page long. I regretted it. I had to go back to college and do a million essays and read other, far less intriguing stories. I did not have the time, and I know myself well enough to assume that I would not be able to read this book in stops and starts. No, I would need to keep reading, and nothing else would be done. Regretfully, I set it back down.

I came home this weekend, checked my emails, said a perfunctory ‘hello’ to my family, and curled up with this book. I finished it two days later, and was very proud of myself for resisting the temptation to skip meals and sleep.

It is subtitled ‘The Kingkiller Chronicle: Day One’, which causes brief panic that we might have another ‘Ulysses’ on our hands but several times larger. But no, the day passes within the novel, but the story mostly takes place over flashbacks that span several years. I won’t spoil the particulars of the this epic — I wouldn’t know where to begin — but I laughed, cried, felt suspense and fear and rejoiced in the beauty of this book. There is no gratuitous description, but enough to make the story live and breath and positively glitter in your mind’s eye. It is possibly the most beautifully written fantasy epic I have ever read. The characters are full of bravery, cruelty, folly and love in the most delicately demonstrated ways. They feel heart-breakingly possible. Within a page, I wanted to know the story of Kvothe the Kingkiller, the Arcane, the Bloodless. I needed to know.

Fantasy always has magic, and it needs to be carefully handled. If the magic is too carefully applied, the reader is bored. If the magic is too powerful, it feels untrue. The magic within this novel is wonderfully conceived, wonderfully controlled and utterly believable — almost scientific in its intricacy, working along with existing physics. Nothing appears made up for the convenience of the plot — the laws of this world appear rigid and uncontrolled by the author. He never breaks them.

Despite being a fantasy novel, this book’s true magic lies within language, realism, harsh truth, beauty, human cruelty and horror and only occasionally within the extraordinary. I would have kept reading even if Kvothe was just going on a walk. That’s the power that lies in this brand of artful storytelling. I was bewitched.

I shall halt my ramble, and must simply end with an eager recommendation to one and all. This book is worth any time  you have to spare. Read the prologue, and see if you can stop there. I bought the sequel yesterday, and if I didn’t have more work to do, I’d already be reading it. It’s beside me now, tempting me …