If there’s one thing that bothers me about being called a dandy — above all the other things that bother me about it– it is this: It makes my affection for Wilde look like an affectation. It is not. Although I dislike the bulk of his poetry, his plays and stories are enough to rank him as one of the greatest writers in modern history. Yet his genius is often overshadowed by his life. This would be unforgivable if he did not intend it.

“The Picture of Dorian Gray” stands as one of the finest books ever written in English. To only consider it as a dandy manifesto or as a warning against vanity is to reduce it. It is much bigger than that. Aside from being a wise, witty and cynical rip-snorter of a horror tale, it is also about art, deception, morality and human duality.

It is a masterpiece, not just for its handling of its subject matter but also for the practiced inelegance of the prose. Wilde makes it read like he wrote it in an afternoon. That does not just take work; it takes genius. I have no doubt; he knew what he was doing. He throws off some of his best lines like they just occurred to him; this treatment making them even more cutting and surprising than in the tightly scripted plays.

And today, for the first time, I saw the 1945 movie adaptation. It was great.

Like all masterpieces, the story speaks to a different part of you every time you return to it. This time, curiously enough, it made me think of the Internet.

People sometimes think they know me from this blog. But they don’t. Sure, they know a part of me but they would be wrong to think they know the real me. This is where I put a great deal of my ugliness. In the raw world, I am much nicer and much quieter. I’m not as full of hatred and anger as you may think. And it’s not an act. It’s all true.

I am sometimes asked about how I can speak about such personal things here. Well, if a writer can’t talk honestly about the personal, he’s really more of a salesperson. Just what is he doing? I don’t know. So there’s that. But also, none of it feels any more or less personal than anything else. I put parts of me into “The Grumpy Owl” just as I put parts of me into my fiction and parts into my life. I also withhold parts.

Taken to extremes, this blog could be my Dorian Gray picture. It shows something of my soul, something of its ugliness, but does it show the whole truth? It doesn’t. It can’t. At best, you get a peephole into my mind. But only a peephole. You get the same thing if we meet on the street. One is no more true than the other. They’re both true. They’re just different views of the same room.

Anyway, I’ve heard that they’re remaking this movie and–from the looks of it– they’re really going to fuck it up. So do yourself a favor and use the links I’ve so painstakingly provided to watch the 1945 version. Angela Lansbury is in it and she was a fox.

Part One, Part Two, Part Three; Part Four; Part Five;Part Six; Part Seven; Part Eight; Part Nine; Part Ten; Part Eleven; Part Twelve

pics nicked from Daryl Banks