ta muallif kitobidan iqtiboslar  The Picture of Dorian Gray

His eye fell on a large purple satin coverlet heavily embroidered with gold, a splendid piece of late seventeenth-century Venetian work that his grandfather had found in a convent near Bologna.
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The style in which it was written was that curious jewelled style, vivid and obscure at once, full of argot and of archaisms, of technical expressions and of elaborate paraphrases, that characterises the work of some of the finest artists of the French school of Symbolistes
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Some love might come across his life, and purify him, and shield him from those sins that seemed to be already stirring in spirit and in flesh
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The love that he bore him – for it was really love – had nothing in it that was not noble and intellectual. It was not that mere physical admiration of beauty that is born of the senses, and that dies when the senses tire. It was such love as Michael Angelo had known, and Montaigne, and Winckelmann, and Shakespeare himself.
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he regretted that he had not told Basil the true reason why he had wished to hide the picture away.
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There seemed to him to be something tragic in a friendship so coloured by romance
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‘No; there was nothing else to see. Why do you ask? But you mustn’t talk about worship. It is foolish. You and I are friends, Basil, and we must always remain so.’
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You have not realised how I have developed. I was a schoolboy when you knew me. I am a man now
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I cannot repeat an emotion. No one can, except sentimentalists
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This portrait would be to him the most magical of mirrors. As it had revealed to him his own body, so it would reveal to him his own soul
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