the picture of dorian gray

turkcesi dorian gray'in portresi olan oscar wilde eseri. kitap dorian gray, basil hallward ve lord henry wotton arasinda gecer. kitap akici bir dile sahip olmakla birlikte ustu kapali birtakim olaylara da yer verilir. ilk basim sirasinda kitabin mevcut halinden birkac bolum cikarilmistir, cunku escinsellik 18. yy'da yasakti, ve kitabin basilip satilabilmesi icin bu tarz bir yola basvurulmasi gerekiyordu. teknik bilgiyi de verdikten sonra gelelim kitabin konusuna, ressam basil hallward, kitabin adindan da anlasilacagi uzere dorian gray'in portresini cizer. portrenin cizildigi gun dorian oyle bir dilek tutar ki bundan sonraki tum hayati degisir, pek sanmiyorum ya bu basligi okuyan biri cikar spoiler yuzunden bana kufur etmesin. ayrintiya girmeyecegim o yuzden. kitap bir sekilde elinize gecerse mutlaka okuyun.

aldım okuyucam

The studio was filled with the rich odour of roses, and when the light summer wind stirred amidst the trees of the garden, there came through the open door the heavy scent of the lilac, or the more delicate perfume of the pink-flowering thorn.

From the corner of the divan of Persian saddle-bags on which he was lying, smoking, as was his custom, innumerable cigarettes, Lord Henry Wotton could just catch the gleam of the honey-sweet and honey-coloured blossoms of a laburnum, whose tremulous branches seemed hardly able to bear the burden of a beauty so flamelike as theirs; and now and then the fantastic shadows of birds in flight flitted across the long tussore-silk curtains that were stretched in front of the huge window, producing a kind of momentary Japanese effect, and making him think of those pallid, jade-faced painters of Tokyo who, through the medium of an art that is necessarily immobile, seek to convey the sense of swiftness and motion.

The sullen murmur of the bees shouldering their way through the long unmown grass, or circling with monotonous insistence round the dusty gilt horns of the straggling woodbine, seemed to make the stillness more oppressive. The dim roar of London was like the bourdon note of a distant organ.

In the centre of the room, clamped to an upright easel, stood the full-length portrait of a young man of extraordinary personal beauty, and in front of it, some little distance away, was sitting the artist himself, Basil Hallward, whose sudden disappearance some years ago caused, at the time, such public excitement and gave rise to so many strange conjectures.