goodness knows why i only rated this book four stars in my youth. part of me wants to believe it's some kind of withholding of a love that now in my old age (heh) seems inevitable. as a rule, i am terrified of re-reading books that have once touched me for fear that it would no longer have the same effect, and Dorian Gray was one of those books. i've idealized Oscar too much and i thought, if i don't like Dorian Gray as much anymore, i'll be doomed (to what, i don't know).

but it did not disappoint. if anything, i enjoyed it far too much, with special thanks to my English degree and eager embodiment of New Hedonism as a concept (but not in practice - fortunately or unfortunately).

i had this notion that Lord Henry was Oscar's mouthpiece with the epigrams that he slings left and right. his ideas on youth, art, and beauty are all marked and lined even though i'm not entirely sure if i ascribe to the view.

i remember in high school i sneered at the chapter of Dorian Gray where there was talk of Dorian's hobbies. i see now that it was a classic case of reaction formation. in my second reading, i enjoyed it far too much, lingered on the passages for far too long. in my reading it felt as if it was a direct appeal to my senses. and that's why, ladies, i want a portrait of Oscar Wilde to hang upon the walls of my future home.