I'd forgotten just how much I loved this novel. Wilde's wit is
superb, and super-sharp. His ability to make snide social
commentary was lost on his time (and indeed, got him in a whole
hell of a lot of trouble), but it makes me smile.
On the surface, this is the story of a man who trades his soul in
order to make a painting suffer all the effects of sin and aging
for him, that he never loses the blush or beauty of youth. As he
delves further and further into sin and degredation, taking the
young and innocent down into the dirt with him, the painting grows
more grotesque, and he watches his own sins stain its
surface.
The 'homosexual content' that so landed Wilde in trouble is such a
deft and light touch that at times you have to really hunt for it,
but there's a testament there to just how far we've come (and how
far we have to go).
Enjoyable, dark, spoiled, ruined, hopeful, interesting... oh, I
love this book.