The Picture of Dorian Gray | Progressive Norwegian A1 Translation Books

The Picture of Dorian Gray | Progressive Norwegian A1 Translation Books

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THEPREFACE
Theartististhecreatorof
vakre
beautiful
things.
Torevealart
og
and
concealtheartistisart’saim.
Den
The
criticishewho
kan
can
translateintoanothermanner
eller
or
anewmaterialhisimpressionof
vakre
beautiful
things.
Thehighestas
den
the
lowestformofcriticismis
en
a
modeofautobiography.
Those
som
who
finduglymeaningsin
vakre
beautiful
thingsarecorruptwithoutbeingcharming.
Dette
This
isafault.
Those
som
who
findbeautifulmeaningsin
vakre
beautiful
thingsarethecultivated.
For
disse
these
thereishope.
Theyaretheelecttowhom
vakre
beautiful
thingsmeanonlybeauty.
Det
There
isnosuchthingasamoral
eller
or
animmoralbook.
Booksare
godt
well
written,orbadlywritten.
Det
That
isall.
ThenineteenthcenturydislikeofrealismistherageofCaliban
se
seeing
hisownfacein
et
a
glass.
ThenineteenthcenturydislikeofromanticismistherageofCalibannot
se
seeing
hisownfacein
et
a
glass.
Themorallifeofmanforms
del
part
ofthesubject-matterof
den
the
artist,butthemoralityofartconsistsin
den
the
perfectuseofanimperfectmedium.
Ingen
No
artistdesirestoprove
noe
anything
.
Eventhingsthatare
sant
true
canbeproved.
Noartist
har
has
ethicalsympathies.
Anethicalsympathyin
en
an
artistisanunpardonablemannerismofstyle.
Ingen
No
artistisevermorbid.
Theartist
kan
can
expresseverything.
Thoughtandlanguagearetotheartistinstrumentsof
en
an
art.
Viceandvirtuearetotheartistmaterialsfor
en
an
art.
Fromthepointofviewofform,thetypeof
alle
all
theartsistheartofthemusician.
Fromthepointofviewoffeeling,theactor’scraftisthetype.
Allartisatoncesurface
og
and
symbol.
Thosewhogobeneaththesurface
gjør
do
soattheirperil.
Those
som
who
readthesymboldosoattheirperil.
Itisthespectator,
og
and
notlife,thatart
virkelig
really
mirrors.
Diversityofopinion
om
about
aworkofart
viser
shows
thattheworkis
nytt
new
,complex,andvital.
Whencriticsdisagree,theartistisinaccord
med
with
himself.
Wecanforgive
en
a
manformakingauseful
ting
thing
aslongashedoesnotadmire
det
it
.
Theonlyexcusefor
lage
making
auselessthingisthatoneadmiresitintensely.
Allartis
helt
quite
useless.
CHAPTERI.
Thestudiowasfilled
med
with
therichodourofroses,
og
and
whenthelightsummerwindstirredamidst
den
the
treesofthegarden,
det
there
camethroughtheopen
døren
door
theheavyscentof
den
the
lilac,orthemoredelicateperfumeof
den
the
pink-floweringthorn.
FromthecornerofthedivanofPersiansaddle-bagsonwhichhewas
lying
,smoking,aswashiscustom,innumerablecigarettes,LordHenryWotton
kunne
could
justcatchthegleamofthehoney-sweet
og
and
honey-colouredblossomsofalaburnum,whosetremulousbranchesseemedhardly
stand
able
tobeartheburdenof
en
a
beautysoflamelikeastheirs;
og
and
nowandthenthefantasticshadowsofbirdsinflightflittedacrossthelongtussore-silkcurtainsthatwerestretchedin
foran
front
ofthehugewindow,producingakindofmomentaryJapaneseeffect,
og
and
makinghimthinkofthosepallid,jade-facedpaintersofTokyowho,
gjennom
through
themediumofanartthatisnecessarilyimmobile,seektoconveythesenseofswiftness
og
and
motion.
Thesullenmurmurofthebeesshoulderingtheir
vei
way
throughthelongunmowngrass,
eller
or
circlingwithmonotonousinsistenceroundthedustygilthornsofthestragglingwoodbine,seemedto
gjøre
make
thestillnessmoreoppressive.
Den
The
dimroarofLondonwas
som
like
thebourdonnoteof
et
a
distantorgan.
Inthecentreofthe
rommet
room
,clampedtoanuprighteasel,stoodthefull-lengthportraitofa
ung
young
manofextraordinarypersonalbeauty,
og
and
infrontofit,
noen
some
littledistanceaway,was
satt
sitting
theartisthimself,BasilHallward,whosesuddendisappearance
noen
some
yearsagocaused,atthe
tiden
time
,suchpublicexcitementandgaverisetoso
mange
many
strangeconjectures.
Asthepainter
looked
atthegraciousandcomelyformhe
hadde
had
soskilfullymirroredinhisart,
et
a
smileofpleasurepassedacrosshis
ansiktet
face
,andseemedabouttolinger
der
there
.
Buthesuddenlystarted
opp
up
,andclosinghiseyes,
plassert
placed
hisfingersuponthelids,as
om
though
hesoughttoimprisonwithinhisbrain
noen
some
curiousdreamfromwhichhefearedhe
kunne
might
awake.
“Itisyour
beste
best
work,Basil,thebestthingyou
har
have
everdone,”saidLordHenrylanguidly.
“You
must
certainlysenditnext
år
year
totheGrosvenor.
TheAcademyis
for
too
largeandtoovulgar.
WheneverI
har
have
gonethere,therehavebeen
enten
either
somanypeoplethatI
har
have
notbeenableto
se
see
thepictures,whichwasdreadful,
eller
or
somanypicturesthatI
har
have
notbeenableto
se
see
thepeople,whichwasworse.
TheGrosvenoris
virkelig
really
theonlyplace.”
“Idon’t
tror
think
Ishallsenditanywhere,”he
svarte
answered
,tossinghisheadbackinthatodd
måten
way
thatusedtomakehisfriendslaughathimatOxford.
“No,Iwon’t
sende
send
itanywhere.”
LordHenryelevatedhiseyebrows
og
and
lookedathiminamazement
gjennom
through
thethinbluewreathsofsmoke
som
that
curledupinsuchfancifulwhorlsfromhisheavy,opium-taintedcigarette.
“Not
sende
send
itanywhere?
Mydearfellow,
hvorfor
why
?
Haveyouanyreason?
Whatoddchapsyoupainters
er
are
!
Youdoanythinginthe
verden
world
togainareputation.
As
snart
soon
asyouhaveone,youseemto
vil
want
tothrowitaway.
Itissillyofyou,forthereis
bare
only
onethinginthe
verden
world
worsethanbeingtalked
om
about
,andthatisnotbeing
snakket
talked
about.
Aportraitlike
dette
this
wouldsetyoufaraboveall
de
the
youngmeninEngland,
og
and
maketheoldmen
ganske
quite
jealous,ifoldmenareevercapableofanyemotion.”
“I
vet
know
youwilllaughatme,”hereplied,“butI
virkelig
really
can’texhibitit.
I
har
have
puttoomuchofmyselfintoit.”
LordHenrystretchedhimself
ut
out
onthedivanandlaughed.
“Yes,I
visste
knew
youwould;
butitis
helt
quite
true,allthesame.”
“Too
mye
much
ofyourselfinit!
Uponmy
ord
word
,Basil,Ididn’tknowyouweresovain;
og
and
Ireallycan’tsee
noen
any
resemblancebetweenyou,withyourruggedstrong
ansikt
face
andyourcoal-blackhair,
og
and
thisyoungAdonis,wholooksas
om
if
hewasmadeoutofivory
og
and
rose-leaves.
Why,mydearBasil,heisaNarcissus,
og
and
you—well,ofcourseyou
har
have
anintellectualexpressionand
alt
all
that.
Butbeauty,realbeauty,ends
der
where
anintellectualexpressionbegins.
Intellectisinitselfamodeofexaggeration,
og
and
destroystheharmonyof
helst
any
face.
Themomentonesits
ned
down
tothink,onebecomesallnose,
eller
or
allforehead,orsomethinghorrid.
Se
Look
atthesuccessfulmenin
noen
any
ofthelearnedprofessions.
Hvor
How
perfectlyhideoustheyare!
Except,of
selvfølgelig
course
,intheChurch.
ButthenintheChurchtheydon’t
tenker
think
.
Abishopkeepson
si
saying
attheageofeightywhathewastoldto
si
say
whenhewasa
gutt
boy
ofeighteen,andas
en
a
naturalconsequencehealways
ser
looks
absolutelydelightful.
Yourmysterious
unge
young
friend,whosenameyou
har
have
nevertoldme,butwhosepicture
virkelig
really
fascinatesme,neverthinks.
I
føler
feel
quitesureofthat.
Heis
noen
some
brainlessbeautifulcreaturewho
burde
should
bealwayshereinwinter
når
when
wehavenoflowersto
se
look
at,andalwayshereinsummer
når
when
wewantsomethingtochillourintelligence.
Don’tflatteryourself,Basil:
youarenotintheleast
som
like
him.”
“Youdon’tunderstand
meg
me
,Harry,”answeredtheartist.
“Of
selvfølgelig
course
Iamnotlike
ham
him
.
Iknowthatperfectly
godt
well
.
Indeed,Ishouldbe
lei
sorry
tolooklikehim.
Youshrugyourshoulders?
Iam
forteller
telling
youthetruth.
Thereis
en
a
fatalityaboutallphysical
og
and
intellectualdistinction,thesortoffatalitythatseemsto
hund
dog
throughhistorythefalteringstepsofkings.
Itis
bedre
better
nottobedifferentfromone’sfellows.
De
The
uglyandthestupid
har
have
thebestofitin
denne
this
world.
Theycansitattheirease
og
and
gapeattheplay.
Ifthey
vet
know
nothingofvictory,theyareatleastsparedtheknowledgeofdefeat.
They
leve
live
asweallshouldlive—undisturbed,indifferent,
og
and
withoutdisquiet.
Theyneither
bringer
bring
ruinuponothers,noreverreceiveitfromalienhands.
Yourrank
og
and
wealth,Harry;
mybrains,
slik
such
astheyare—myart,
hva
whatever
itmaybeworth;
DorianGray’s
gode
good
looks—weshallallsufferforwhatthegods
har
have
givenus,sufferterribly.”
“DorianGray?
Is
det
that
hisname?”
askedLordHenry,
går
walking
acrossthestudiotowardsBasilHallward.
“Yes,
det
that
ishisname.
Ididn’tintendto
fortelle
tell
ittoyou.”
“But
hvorfor
why
not?”
“Oh,Ican’texplain.
Når
When
Ilikepeopleimmensely,I
aldri
never
telltheirnamesto
noen
any
one.
Itislikesurrendering
en
a
partofthem.
I
har
have
growntolovesecrecy.
Itseemstobetheonethingthat
kan
can
makemodernlifemysterious
eller
or
marvelloustous.
Thecommonestthingisdelightful
hvis
if
oneonlyhidesit.
Når
When
IleavetownnowI
aldri
never
tellmypeoplewhereIamgoing.
Hvis
If
Idid,Iwould
miste
lose
allmypleasure.
Itis
en
a
sillyhabit,Idare
si
say
,butsomehowitseemsto
bringe
bring
agreatdealofromanceintoone’s
liv
life
.
Isupposeyouthinkmeawfullyfoolish
om
about
it?”
“Notatall,”
svarte
answered
LordHenry,“notatall,my
kjære
dear
Basil.
Youseemto
glemme
forget
thatIammarried,
og
and
theonecharmofmarriageisthatit
gjør
makes
alifeofdeceptionabsolutelynecessaryfor
begge
both
parties.
Ineverknow
hvor
where
mywifeis,andmy
kone
wife
neverknowswhatIamdoing.
Når
When
wemeet—wedomeetoccasionally,
når
when
wedineouttogether,
eller
or
godowntotheDuke’s—we
forteller
tell
eachotherthemostabsurdstories
med
with
themostseriousfaces.
My
kone
wife
isverygoodatit—much
bedre
better
,infact,thanIam.
She
aldri
never
getsconfusedoverherdates,
og
and
Ialwaysdo.
But
når
when
shedoesfindme
ut
out
,shemakesnorowatall.
I
noen ganger
sometimes
wishshewould;
butshemerelylaughsatme.”
“I
hater
hate
thewayyoutalk
om
about
yourmarriedlife,Harry,”
sa
said
BasilHallward,strollingtowardsthe
døren
door
thatledintothegarden.
“I
tror
believe
thatyouarereally
en
a
verygoodhusband,but
at
that
youarethoroughlyashamedofyour
egne
own
virtues.
Youareanextraordinaryfellow.
You
aldri
never
sayamoralthing,
og
and
youneverdoa
feil
wrong
thing.
Yourcynicismissimply
en
a
pose.”
“Beingnaturalissimply
en
a
pose,andthemostirritatingposeIknow,”criedLordHenry,laughing;
og
and
thetwoyoungmen
gikk
went
outintothegarden
sammen
together
andensconcedthemselveson
en
a
longbambooseatthatstoodin
de
the
shadeofatalllaurelbush.
De
The
sunlightslippedoverthepolishedleaves.
Inthegrass,whitedaisiesweretremulous.
Etter
After
apause,LordHenrypulled
ut
out
hiswatch.
“Iam
redd
afraid
Imustbegoing,Basil,”hemurmured,“and
før
before
Igo,Iinsistonyour
svarer
answering
aquestionIputtoyou
noen
some
timeago.”
“Whatisthat?”
sa
said
thepainter,keepinghiseyesfixedontheground.
“You
vet
know
quitewell.”
“Idonot,Harry.”
“Well,I
vil
will
tellyouwhatit
er
is
.
Iwantyoutoexplaintome
hvorfor
why
youwon’texhibitDorianGray’spicture.
I
vil
want
therealreason.”
“I
fortalte
told
youtherealreason.”
“No,you
gjorde
did
not.
Yousaiditwas
fordi
because
therewastoomuchofyourselfinit.
Now
,thatischildish.”
“Harry,”
sa
said
BasilHallward,lookinghimstraightinthe
ansiktet
face
,“everyportraitthatispainted
med
with
feelingisaportraitoftheartist,notofthesitter.
Thesitterismerelytheaccident,theoccasion.
Itisnothe
som
who
isrevealedbythepainter;
itisratherthepainter
som
who
,onthecolouredcanvas,revealshimself.
ThereasonI
vil
will
notexhibitthispictureisthatIam
redd
afraid
thatIhaveshowninitthesecretofmy
egen
own
soul.”
LordHenrylaughed.
“Andwhatisthat?”
he
spurte
asked
.
“Iwilltellyou,”
sa
said
Hallward;
butanexpressionofperplexity
kom
came
overhisface.
“Iamallexpectation,Basil,”continuedhiscompanion,glancingat
ham
him
.
“Oh,thereisreallyvery
lite
little
totell,Harry,”answeredthepainter;
“andIam
redd
afraid
youwillhardlyunderstand
det
it
.
Perhapsyouwillhardly
tro
believe
it.”
LordHenrysmiled,
og
and
leaningdown,pluckedapink-petalleddaisyfromthegrass
og
and
examinedit.
“Iam
ganske
quite
sureIshallunderstandit,”hereplied,gazingintentlyatthe
lille
little
golden,white-feathereddisk,“andasfor
tro
believing
things,Icanbelieve
alt
anything
,providedthatitis
ganske
quite
incredible.”
Thewindshook
noen
some
blossomsfromthetrees,
og
and
theheavylilac-blooms,withtheirclusteringstars,
flyttet
moved
toandfrointhelanguidair.
En
A
grasshopperbegantochirrupbythewall,
og
and
likeabluethread
en
a
longthindragon-flyfloated
forbi
past
onitsbrowngauzewings.
LordHenryfeltas
om
if
hecouldhearBasilHallward’s
hjerte
heart
beating,andwonderedwhatwas
kom
coming
.
“Thestoryissimplythis,”
sa
said
thepainteraftersometime.
“Twomonths
siden
ago
Iwenttoacrushat
Lady
Lady
Brandon’s.
Youknowwe
stakkars
poor
artistshavetoshowourselvesinsocietyfrom
tid
time
totime,justtoremindthepublic
at
that
wearenotsavages.
Med
With
aneveningcoatandawhitetie,asyou
fortalte
told
meonce,anybody,evenastock-broker,
kan
can
gainareputationforbeingcivilized.
Vel
Well
,afterIhadbeeninthe
rommet
room
abouttenminutes,talkingtohugeoverdresseddowagers
og
and
tediousacademicians,Isuddenly
ble
became
consciousthatsomeonewas
se
looking
atme.
Iturnedhalf-wayround
og
and
sawDorianGrayforthe
første
first
time.
Whenoureyes
møttes
met
,IfeltthatIwasgrowingpale.
En
A
curioussensationofterror
kom
came
overme.
IknewthatI
hadde
had
comefacetoface
med
with
someonewhosemerepersonalitywassofascinatingthat,ifIalloweditto
gjøre
do
so,itwouldabsorbmy
hele
whole
nature,mywholesoul,myveryartitself.
Ididnot
ville
want
anyexternalinfluenceinmy
livet
life
.
Youknowyourself,Harry,
hvor
how
independentIambynature.
I
har
have
alwaysbeenmyownmaster;
hadde
had
atleastalwaysbeenso,tillI
møtte
met
DorianGray.
Then—butIdon’t
vet
know
howtoexplainittoyou.
Noe
Something
seemedtotellme
at
that
Iwasonthevergeof
en
a
terriblecrisisinmy
livet
life
.
Ihadastrangefeeling
at
that
fatehadinstoreformeexquisitejoys
og
and
exquisitesorrows.
Igrew
redd
afraid
andturnedtoquitthe
rommet
room
.
Itwasnotconsciencethat
gjøre
made
medoso:
itwas
en
a
sortofcowardice.
I
tar
take
nocredittomyselffor
prøve
trying
toescape.”
“Conscienceandcowardiceare
virkelig
really
thesamethings,Basil.
Conscienceisthetrade-nameofthefirm.
Det
That
isall.”
“Idon’t
tror
believe
that,Harry,andIdon’t
tror
believe
youdoeither.
However,
hva
whatever
wasmymotive—andit
kan
may
havebeenpride,forI
pleide
used
tobeveryproud—Icertainlystruggledtothe
døren
door
.
There,ofcourse,Istumbled
mot
against
LadyBrandon.
‘Youarenotgoingto
løpe
run
awaysosoon,Mr.Hallward?’shescreamed
ut
out
.
Youknowhercuriouslyshrillvoice?”
“Yes;
sheis
en
a
peacockineverythingbutbeauty,”
sa
said
LordHenry,pullingthedaisytobits
med
with
hislongnervousfingers.
“I
kunne
could
notgetridof
henne
her
.
Shebroughtmeuptoroyalties,
og
and
peoplewithstarsandgarters,
og
and
elderlyladieswithgigantictiaras
og
and
parrotnoses.
Shespokeofmeasherdearest
venn
friend
.
Ihadonlymetheronce
før
before
,butshetookitintoher
hodet
head
tolionizeme.
I
tror
believe
somepictureofmine
hadde
had
madeagreatsuccessat
den
the
time,atleasthadbeenchattered
om
about
inthepennynewspapers,
som
which
isthenineteenth-centurystandardofimmortality.
SuddenlyI
fant
found
myselffacetoface
med
with
theyoungmanwhosepersonality
hadde
had
sostrangelystirredme.