For years, Dorian Gray could not free himself from the memory of this book.  Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that he never sought to free himself from it.  He procured from Paris no less than five large-paper copies of the first edition, and had them bound in different colors, so that they might suit his various moods and the changing fancies of a nature over which he seemed, at times, to have almost entirely lost control.  The hero, the wonderful young Parisian, in whom the romantic temperament and the scientific temperament were so strangely blended, became to him a kind of prefiguring type of himself.  And, indeed, the whole book seemed to him to contain the story of his own life, written before he had lived it.
 In one point he was more fortunate than the book's fantastic hero. He never knew - never, indeed, had any cause to know - that somewhat grotesque dread of mirrors, and polished metal surfaces, and still water, which came upon the young Parisian so early in his life, and was occasioned by the sudden decay of a beauty that had once, apparently, been so remarkable.  It was with an almost cruel joy - and perhaps in nearly every joy, as certainly in every pleasure, cruelty has its place - that he used to read the latter part of the book, with its really tragic, if somewhat over-emphasized, account of the sorrow and despair of one who had himself lost what in others, and in the world, he had most valued.
 He, at any rate, had no cause to fear that.  The boyish beauty that had so fascinated Basil Hallward, and many others besides him, seemed never to leave him.  Even those who had heard the most evil things against him (and from time to time strange rumors about his mode of life crept through London and became the chatter of the clubs) could not believe anything to his dishonor when they saw him.  He had always the look of one who had kept himself unspotted from the world. Men who talked grossly became silent when Dorian Gray entered the room.  There was something in the purity of his face that rebuked them.  His mere presence seemed to recall to them the innocence that they had tarnished.  They wondered how one so charming and graceful as he was could have escaped the stain of an age that was at once sordid and sensuous.
 He himself, on returning home from one of those mysterious and prolonged absences that gave rise to such strange conjecture among those who were his friends, or thought that they were so, would creep up-stairs to the locked room, open the door with the key that never left him, and stand, with a mirror, in front of the portrait that Basil Hallward had painted of him, looking now at the evil and aging face on the canvas, and now at the fair young face that laughed back at him from the polished glass.  The very sharpness of the contrast used to quicken his sense of pleasure.  He grew more and more enamoured of his own beauty, more and more interested in the corruption of his own soul.  He would examine with minute care, and often with a monstrous and terrible delight, the hideous lines that seared the wrinkling forehead or crawled around the heavy sensual mouth,  wondering sometimes which were the more horrible, the signs of sin or the signs of age.  He would place his white hands beside the coarse bloated hands of the picture, and smile.  He mocked the misshapen body and the failing limbs. ...