Decadence, Beauty, Youth

I started The Picture of Dorian Gray last night by Oscar Wilde (Irishman). I have been struggling through What is Literature? By Jean Paul Sartre because with a trace of fatigue in my mind I can no longer follow French Existentialism. It is ever so convoluted. And Georg Lakoff’s Metaphors We Live By has been alright although seems quite elementary and has troubles holding my interest. I feel as though much of what is said in that book I have heard before and haven’t had a change of mind. I still see what I originally saw in that scholarship and so out of desperation I picked up Richard Dawkin’s book The God Delusion partly because I recognized the author and the title. But I should have paused for a second thought, realizing I recognized it not from footnotes or a friend’s mention but alas, television, I knew it to be sensationalist. I maintain that the man is Ann Coulter’s political/intellectual foil. If you don’t know either of them, don’t bother. Their sole purpose is to rile people up by claiming with the confidence of Gods things that are such grotesque renderings of what one could call truth (with a lower case t) that it isn’t worth the trouble. Believe me, I couldn’t make it through the Preface I was so blustering flustering mad.

So I gave up and checked out one of my all-time favorite novels. I was given The Picture of Dorian Gray I believe by my Aunt Emily when I was, oh say, around 11 or 12 years old. And eagerly read it on my own. Then I believe I have read it once or twice more for various academic purposes. Re-read it once more after graduating and here I am again. I can’t get enough of the book. Although Oscar Wilde is known for ridiculous out of context aphorisms that seem to be relevant to just about nothing, I still do believe that he cliché paradoxical musings hold exactly that phenomenon of ineffable truth. Perhaps I’m just enchanted by the notions raised in the novel. I’m not sure.

The best part of novel reading and so it is true with this novel in particular is identifying with almost every character to the level of astonished imitation. And thus, the novel becomes an exposition of the self with all its dynamic conflicts, passions etc. I guess I’m partial to the life as literature metaphor… And since The Picture of Dorian Gray’s subject matter entails Beauty and Vanity the act of reading it, and obsessing and admiring the novel’s own Beauty is exactly that collusion of Beauty and Vanity (as one is obsessing over a reflection of oneself) such an interesting read.

Such decadence, intellectually and artistically this book does nothing less than fully engage one. Trying to tease out the different threads between Beauty, Morality and Utility (three big shot topics in the type of philosophy I enjoy) is quite a job, especially when fighting the alluring anesthetization of Wilde’s decadent prose.

So after meeting one of Ireland’s best fiddle players yesterday and having a glorious dinner with great company Brian and I returned to our humble abode. Stoking the fire high and setting our lanterns to buttress the enveloping darkness we opened a bottle of wine and read by lamp and firelight into the wee hours of the morning. I couldn’t imagine a better way to read Dorian Gray. Except maybe in a large deep lounge chair instead of a camp chair.
I vehemently recommend this novel to ANYONE. If you haven’t read it, you must and if you have read it, you must read it again. I’m serious.

On the issue of prose and poetry and art.
I have some thoughts on What is Literature? In regards to myself and my brother. Sartre distinguishes between the use of language employed by the poet and that of the prose writer. It’s fascinating. Perhaps tomorrow I’ll post it specifically. But anyway, this is a bit silly and romantic but as Lord Henry would say, those are exactly the important things in life. Or something along those lines…

My brother is a fantastic poet. I am horrid. Absolutely dismal, but my brother is brilliant. And in my vanity I like to think myself having a disposition toward prose (not like my writings here mind you). Wouldn’t it be fantastic to be a pair of geniuses? Me writing prose and my brother poetry? It seems fit for a novel. Hah. Kidding. Anyway, that was my thought. Seems stunted here, perhaps I haven’t divulged all of it, but I’ll have to recapture it to do so. Perhaps at another time. It had something to do with Sartre, I promise. Alright well we’ve slept in much too late today and 5 tonnes of stone have just been dumped in our front yard and is in need of attention.

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