The Picture of Dorian Gray

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Thus you believe that only God sees souls, Basil? Draw back the curtain and you will see mine. He had spoken these words in a harsh and cruel voice. You are mad, Dorian, or you are playing, murmured Hallward, frowning. You don’t want to? Then I will do it myself, said the young man, tearing the curtain from its rod and throwing it to the ground. A cry of horror escaped the painter's lips when he saw, in the dim light, the hideous face that smiled at him from the canvas. There was something in its expression that filled him with disgust and revulsion. Great gods! It was the face of Dorian Gray he was looking at! The horror, whatever it was, had not yet completely ravaged his astonishing beauty. There were still glimmers of gold in his thinning hair and a hint of red on his sensual mouth. The swollen eyes retained some of the beauty of their blue. The contour of the nostrils and the shape of the neck had not yet entirely lost the nobility of their curves. It was indeed Dorian. But who had painted this portrait? He seemed to recognize his own brushwork. As for the frame, it was his. It was a monstrous idea, and yet he felt fear. He took the lit candle and held it before the portrait. His name appeared in the lower left corner, written in long letters of bright vermilion.