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The Picture of Dorian Gray | Progressive Translation Books for Norwegian A1-B2 Students

The Picture of Dorian Gray | Progressive Translation Books for Norwegian A1-B2 Students

This progressive translation technique brings multiple benefits to language learners. It lets you choose the difficulty level that matches your abilities, making sure the material is challenging but not too difficult. By focusing on understanding words in context, this method boosts your comprehension skills. While direct translations are slightly hidden to promote guessing from context, you can always check unfamiliar words. This approach makes learning a new language both engaging and accessible, offering the right mix of difficulty and encouragement. Embark on a journey through translated classics and enjoy the process of learning through reading.

THEPREFACE
Theartististhe
skaperen
creatorofbeautifulthings.
To
avsløre
revealartandconcealthe
kunstneren
artistisart’saim.
Thecriticishe
som
whocantranslateintoanother
måte
manneroranewmaterialhis
inntrykk
impressionofbeautifulthings.
Thehighestas
den
thelowestformofcriticismis
en
amodeofautobiography.
Those
som
whofinduglymeaningsin
vakre
beautifulthingsarecorruptwithoutbeing
sjarmerende
charming.
Thisisafault.
Those
som
whofindbeautifulmeaningsin
vakre
beautifulthingsarethecultivated.
For
disse
thesethereishope.
Theyarethe
utvalgte
electtowhombeautifulthings
betyr
meanonlybeauty.
Thereisnosuchthingasa
moralsk
moraloranimmoralbook.
Booksare
godt
wellwritten,orbadlywritten.
Det
Thatisall.
Thenineteenthcentury
motvilje
dislikeofrealismistherageofCaliban
se
seeinghisownfacein
et
aglass.
Thenineteenthcentury
motvilje
dislikeofromanticismistherageofCalibannot
se
seeinghisownfacein
et
aglass.
Themorallifeofmanforms
del
partofthesubject-matterof
den
theartist,butthemoralityofartconsistsin
den
theperfectuseofan
ufullkommen
imperfectmedium.
Noartistdesiresto
bevise
proveanything.
Eventhingsthatare
sant
truecanbeproved.
Noartist
har
hasethicalsympathies.
Anethical
sympati
sympathyinanartistis
en
anunpardonablemannerismofstyle.
Ingen
Noartistisevermorbid.
The
kunstneren
artistcanexpresseverything.
Thought
og
andlanguagearetothe
kunstneren
artistinstrumentsofanart.
Vice
og
andvirtuearetothe
kunstneren
artistmaterialsforanart.
Fromthepointofviewofform,the
typen
typeofalltheartsisthe
kunst
artofthemusician.
Fromthepointofviewoffeeling,theactor’scraftisthe
typen
type.
Allartisatoncesurface
og
andsymbol.
Thosewhogo
under
beneaththesurfacedosoattheirperil.
Those
som
whoreadthesymboldosoattheirperil.
Itisthespectator,
og
andnotlife,thatart
virkelig
reallymirrors.
Diversityofopinion
om
aboutaworkofart
viser
showsthattheworkis
nytt
new,complex,andvital.
Whencriticsdisagree,the
kunstneren
artistisinaccordwithhimself.
We
kan
canforgiveamanfor
lage
makingausefulthingas
lenge
longashedoesnot
beundrer
admireit.
Theonlyexcusefor
lage
makingauselessthingisthatone
beundrer
admiresitintensely.
Allartis
helt
quiteuseless.
CHAPTERI.
Thestudiowas
fylt
filledwiththerichodourofroses,
og
andwhenthelightsummerwind
rørte
stirredamidstthetreesof
den
thegarden,therecamethrough
den
theopendoortheheavy
duften
scentofthelilac,or
den
themoredelicateperfumeof
den
thepink-floweringthorn.
FromthecornerofthedivanofPersiansaddle-bagsonwhichhewas
lå
lying,smoking,aswashis
skikk
custom,innumerablecigarettes,LordHenryWotton
kunne
couldjustcatchthegleamofthehoney-sweet
og
andhoney-colouredblossomsofalaburnum,
hvis
whosetremulousbranchesseemedhardly
stand
abletobeartheburdenof
en
abeautysoflamelikeastheirs;
og
andnowandthenthefantasticshadowsofbirdsinflightflitted
over
acrossthelongtussore-silkcurtainsthatwere
strakt
stretchedinfrontofthe
store
hugewindow,producingakindofmomentaryJapanese
effekt
effect,andmakinghimthinkofthosepallid,jade-facedpaintersofTokyowho,
gjennom
throughthemediumofan
kunst
artthatisnecessarilyimmobile,
søker
seektoconveythesenseofswiftness
og
andmotion.
Thesullenmurmurofthebeesshoulderingtheir
vei
waythroughthelongunmown
gress
grass,orcirclingwithmonotonousinsistence
rundt
roundthedustygilthornsofthestragglingwoodbine,
syntes
seemedtomakethestillness
mer
moreoppressive.
ThedimroarofLondonwas
som
likethebourdonnoteof
et
adistantorgan.
Inthecentreof
den
theroom,clampedtoan
oppreist
uprighteasel,stoodthefull-lengthportraitofa
ung
youngmanofextraordinarypersonal
skjønnhet
beauty,andinfrontof
det
it,somelittledistanceaway,was
satt
sittingtheartisthimself,BasilHallward,
hvis
whosesuddendisappearancesomeyears
siden
agocaused,atthetime,such
offentlig
publicexcitementandgaverisetosomanystrangeconjectures.
As
den
thepainterlookedatthe
grasiøse
graciousandcomelyformhe
hadde
hadsoskilfullymirroredinhis
kunst
art,asmileofpleasurepassed
over
acrosshisface,andseemed
om
abouttolingerthere.
Buthe
plutselig
suddenlystartedup,andclosinghiseyes,
plassert
placedhisfingersuponthelids,as
om
thoughhesoughttoimprisonwithinhis
hjernen
brainsomecuriousdreamfromwhichhe
fryktet
fearedhemightawake.
“Itisyour
beste
bestwork,Basil,thebestthingyou
har
haveeverdone,”saidLordHenrylanguidly.
“You
må
mustcertainlysenditnext
år
yeartotheGrosvenor.
The
Akademiet
Academyistoolargeand
for
toovulgar.
WheneverIhavegonethere,there
har
havebeeneithersomany
mennesker
peoplethatIhavenotbeen
stand
abletoseethepictures,whichwas
forferdelig
dreadful,orsomanypicturesthatI
har
havenotbeenableto
se
seethepeople,whichwas
verre
worse.
TheGrosvenorisreallythe
eneste
onlyplace.”
“Idon’tthinkIshall
sende
senditanywhere,”heanswered,
kastet
tossinghisheadbackinthatodd
måten
waythatusedtomakehisfriends
le
laughathimatOxford.
“No,Iwon’t
sende
senditanywhere.”
LordHenryelevatedhiseyebrows
og
andlookedathiminamazement
gjennom
throughthethinbluewreathsof
røyk
smokethatcurledupinsuchfancifulwhorlsfromhis
tunge
heavy,opium-taintedcigarette.
“Notsenditanywhere?
My
kjære
dearfellow,why?
Haveyou
noen
anyreason?
Whatoddchapsyoupainters
er
are!
Youdoanythinginthe
verden
worldtogainareputation.
As
snart
soonasyouhaveone,youseemto
vil
wanttothrowitaway.
Itissillyofyou,forthereis
bare
onlyonethinginthe
verden
worldworsethanbeingtalked
om
about,andthatisnotbeing
snakket
talkedabout.
Aportraitlike
dette
thiswouldsetyoufar
over
abovealltheyoungmeninEngland,
og
andmaketheoldmen
ganske
quitejealous,ifoldmenareevercapableof
noen
anyemotion.”
“Iknowyou
vil
willlaughatme,”he
svarte
replied,“butIreallycan’texhibitit.
I
har
haveputtoomuchofmyselfintoit.”
LordHenrystretchedhimself
ut
outonthedivanand
lo
laughed.
“Yes,Iknewyou
ville
would;
butitisquite
sant
true,allthesame.”
“Too
mye
muchofyourselfinit!
Uponmy
ord
word,Basil,Ididn’tknowyouwereso
forfengelig
vain;
andIreallycan’tsee
noen
anyresemblancebetweenyou,withyourruggedstrong
ansikt
faceandyourcoal-blackhair,
og
andthisyoungAdonis,wholooksas
om
ifhewasmadeoutof
elfenben
ivoryandrose-leaves.
Why,my
kjære
dearBasil,heisaNarcissus,
og
andyou—well,ofcourseyou
har
haveanintellectualexpressionand
alt
allthat.
Butbeauty,real
skjønnhet
beauty,endswhereanintellectual
uttrykk
expressionbegins.
Intellectisinitselfamodeofexaggeration,
og
anddestroystheharmonyofany
ansikt
face.
Themomentonesits
ned
downtothink,onebecomesall
nesen
nose,orallforehead,or
noe
somethinghorrid.
Lookatthesuccessfulmenin
noen
anyofthelearnedprofessions.
Hvor
Howperfectlyhideoustheyare!
Except,of
selvfølgelig
course,intheChurch.
Buttheninthe
Kirken
Churchtheydon’tthink.
A
biskop
bishopkeepsonsayingatthe
alder
ageofeightywhathewastoldto
si
saywhenhewasa
gutt
boyofeighteen,andas
en
anaturalconsequencehealways
ser
looksabsolutelydelightful.
Yourmysterious
unge
youngfriend,whosenameyou
har
havenevertoldme,but
hvis
whosepicturereallyfascinatesme,
aldri
neverthinks.
Ifeelquite
sikker
sureofthat.
Heis
noen
somebrainlessbeautifulcreaturewho
burde
shouldbealwaysherein
om vinteren
winterwhenwehavenoflowersto
se
lookat,andalwaysherein
sommeren
summerwhenwewantsomethingtochillour
intelligens
intelligence.
Don’tflatteryourself,Basil:
youarenotintheleast
som
likehim.”
“Youdon’tunderstandme,Harry,”
svarte
answeredtheartist.
“OfcourseIamnot
som
likehim.
Iknowthat
perfekt
perfectlywell.
Indeed,Ishouldbe
lei
sorrytolooklikehim.
Youshrugyourshoulders?
Iam
forteller
tellingyouthetruth.
Thereis
en
afatalityaboutallphysical
og
andintellectualdistinction,thesortoffatalitythatseemsto
hund
dogthroughhistorythefalteringstepsofkings.
Itis
bedre
betternottobedifferentfromone’sfellows.
De
Theuglyandthestupid
har
havethebestofitin
denne
thisworld.
Theycansitattheir
lett
easeandgapeattheplay.
Ifthey
vet
knownothingofvictory,theyareatleastsparedtheknowledgeof
nederlag
defeat.
Theyliveasweall
burde
shouldlive—undisturbed,indifferent,andwithoutdisquiet.
They
verken
neitherbringruinuponothers,
eller
noreverreceiveitfrom
fremmede
alienhands.
Yourrankand
rikdom
wealth,Harry;
mybrains,suchastheyare—my
kunst
art,whateveritmaybe
verdt
worth;
DorianGray’sgoodlooks—weshallall
lide
sufferforwhatthegods
har
havegivenus,sufferterribly.”
“DorianGray?
Is
det
thathisname?”
askedLordHenry,
går
walkingacrossthestudiotowardsBasilHallward.
“Yes,
det
thatishisname.
Ididn’t
tenkt
intendtotellittoyou.”
“But
hvorfor
whynot?”
“Oh,Ican’t
forklare
explain.
WhenIlikepeopleimmensely,I
aldri
nevertelltheirnamesto
noen
anyone.
Itislike
overgi
surrenderingapartofthem.
I
har
havegrowntolovesecrecy.
Itseemstobe
den
theonethingthatcan
gjøre
makemodernlifemysteriousor
vidunderlig
marvelloustous.
Thecommonestthingisdelightful
hvis
ifoneonlyhidesit.
Når
WhenIleavetownnowI
aldri
nevertellmypeoplewhereIamgoing.
Hvis
IfIdid,Iwould
miste
loseallmypleasure.
Itis
en
asillyhabit,Idare
si
say,butsomehowitseemsto
bringe
bringagreatdealof
romantikk
romanceintoone’slife.
I
antar
supposeyouthinkmeawfully
tåpelig
foolishaboutit?”
“Notatall,”
svarte
answeredLordHenry,“notatall,my
kjære
dearBasil.
Youseemto
glemme
forgetthatIammarried,
og
andtheonecharmof
ekteskap
marriageisthatitmakes
et
alifeofdeceptionabsolutely
nødvendig
necessaryforbothparties.
I
aldri
neverknowwheremywife
er
is,andmywifenever
vet
knowswhatIamdoing.
Når
Whenwemeet—wedomeetoccasionally,
når
whenwedineouttogether,
eller
orgodowntotheDuke’s—we
forteller
telleachotherthemostabsurdstories
med
withthemostseriousfaces.
My
kone
wifeisverygoodatit—much
bedre
better,infact,thanIam.
She
aldri
nevergetsconfusedoverherdates,
og
andIalwaysdo.
But
når
whenshedoesfindme
ut
out,shemakesnorowatall.
I
noen ganger
sometimeswishshewould;
butshe
bare
merelylaughsatme.”
“I
hater
hatethewayyoutalk
om
aboutyourmarriedlife,Harry,”
sa
saidBasilHallward,strollingtowardsthe
døren
doorthatledintothe
hagen
garden.
“Ibelievethatyouare
virkelig
reallyaverygoodhusband,
men
butthatyouarethoroughlyashamedofyour
egne
ownvirtues.
Youareanextraordinaryfellow.
You
aldri
neversayamoralthing,
og
andyouneverdoa
feil
wrongthing.
Yourcynicismis
bare
simplyapose.”
“Beingnaturalis
bare
simplyapose,andthe
mest
mostirritatingposeIknow,”criedLordHenry,
lo
laughing;
andthetwoyoungmen
gikk
wentoutintothegarden
sammen
togetherandensconcedthemselveson
en
alongbambooseatthatstoodin
de
theshadeofatalllaurelbush.
De
Thesunlightslippedoverthepolishedleaves.
Inthegrass,whitedaisiesweretremulous.
Etter
Afterapause,LordHenry
trakk
pulledouthiswatch.
“Iam
redd
afraidImustbegoing,Basil,”hemurmured,“and
før
beforeIgo,Iinsistonyour
svarer
answeringaquestionIputtoyou
noen
sometimeago.”
“Whatisthat?”
sa
saidthepainter,keepinghiseyesfixedonthe
bakken
ground.
“Youknowquitewell.”
“I
gjør
donot,Harry.”
“Well,I
vil
willtellyouwhatit
er
is.
Iwantyouto
forklare
explaintomewhyyouwon’texhibitDorianGray’s
bilde
picture.
Iwanttherealreason.”
“I
fortalte
toldyoutherealreason.”
“No,you
gjorde
didnot.
Yousaiditwas
fordi
becausetherewastoomuchofyourselfinit.
Nå
Now,thatischildish.”
“Harry,”
sa
saidBasilHallward,lookinghim
rett
straightintheface,“every
portrett
portraitthatispaintedwithfeelingis
et
aportraitoftheartist,notofthesitter.
Thesitteris
bare
merelytheaccident,theoccasion.
Itisnothe
som
whoisrevealedbythe
maleren
painter;
itisratherthe
maleren
painterwho,onthecolouredcanvas,
avslører
revealshimself.
ThereasonI
vil
willnotexhibitthispictureisthatIam
redd
afraidthatIhaveshowninitthesecretofmy
egen
ownsoul.”
LordHenrylaughed.
“Andwhatisthat?”
he
spurte
asked.
“Iwilltellyou,”
sa
saidHallward;
butanexpressionofperplexity
kom
cameoverhisface.
“Iamall
forventning
expectation,Basil,”continuedhiscompanion,glancingat
ham
him.
“Oh,thereisreally
veldig
verylittletotell,Harry,”
svarte
answeredthepainter;
“andIam
redd
afraidyouwillhardlyunderstand
det
it.
Perhapsyouwillhardly
tro
believeit.”
LordHenrysmiled,
og
andleaningdown,pluckedapink-petalled
daisy
daisyfromthegrassand
undersøkte
examinedit.
“Iamquite
sikker
sureIshallunderstandit,”he
svarte
replied,gazingintentlyatthe
lille
littlegolden,white-feathereddisk,“andasfor
tro
believingthings,Icanbelieve
alt
anything,providedthatitis
ganske
quiteincredible.”
Thewindshook
noen
someblossomsfromthetrees,
og
andtheheavylilac-blooms,withtheirclusteringstars,
flyttet
movedtoandfrointhelanguidair.
En
Agrasshopperbegantochirrupbythe
veggen
wall,andlikeablue
tråd
threadalongthindragon-fly
flyter
floatedpastonitsbrowngauzewings.
LordHenryfeltas
om
ifhecouldhearBasilHallward’s
hjerte
heartbeating,andwonderedwhatwas
kom
coming.
“Thestoryissimplythis,”
sa
saidthepainteraftersometime.
“Twomonths
siden
agoIwenttoacrushat
Lady
LadyBrandon’s.
Youknowwe
stakkars
poorartistshavetoshowourselvesin
samfunnet
societyfromtimetotime,
bare
justtoremindthepublic
at
thatwearenotsavages.
Med
Withaneveningcoatandawhite
slips
tie,asyoutoldmeonce,anybody,
selv
evenastock-broker,cangaina
rykte
reputationforbeingcivilized.
Well,
etter
afterIhadbeeninthe
rommet
roomabouttenminutes,talkingto
store
hugeoverdresseddowagersandtediousacademicians,I
plutselig
suddenlybecameconsciousthatsomeonewas
se
lookingatme.
Iturned
halvveis
half-wayroundandsawDorianGrayforthe
første
firsttime.
Whenoureyes
møttes
met,IfeltthatIwasgrowing
blek
pale.
Acurioussensationofterror
kom
cameoverme.
IknewthatI
hadde
hadcomefacetoface
med
withsomeonewhosemere
personlighet
personalitywassofascinatingthat,ifI
tillot
allowedittodoso,it
ville
wouldabsorbmywholenature,mywhole
sjel
soul,myveryartitself.
Ididnot
ville
wantanyexternalinfluenceinmy
livet
life.
Youknowyourself,Harry,
hvor
howindependentIamby
natur
nature.
Ihavealwaysbeenmy
egen
ownmaster;
hadatleast
alltid
alwaysbeenso,tillI
møtte
metDorianGray.
Then—butIdon’t
vet
knowhowtoexplainittoyou.
Noe
Somethingseemedtotellme
at
thatIwasonthe
randen
vergeofaterriblecrisisinmy
livet
life.
Ihadastrangefeeling
at
thatfatehadinstoreformeexquisitejoys
og
andexquisitesorrows.
Igrew
redd
afraidandturnedtoquitthe
rommet
room.
Itwasnotconsciencethat
gjøre
mademedoso:
itwas
en
asortofcowardice.
I
tar
takenocredittomyselffor
prøve
tryingtoescape.”
“Conscienceand
feighet
cowardicearereallythesamethings,Basil.
Samvittighet
Conscienceisthetrade-nameofthe
firmaet
firm.
Thatisall.”
“Idon’t
tror
believethat,Harry,andIdon’t
tror
believeyoudoeither.
However,
hva
whateverwasmymotive—andit
kan
mayhavebeenpride,forI
pleide
usedtobeveryproud—I
sikkert
certainlystruggledtothedoor.
There,of
selvfølgelig
course,IstumbledagainstLady
Brandon
Brandon.
‘Youarenotgoingto
løpe
runawaysosoon,Mr.Hallward?’she
skrek
screamedout.
Youknowhercuriouslyshrillvoice?”
“Yes;
sheis
en
apeacockineverythingbutbeauty,”
sa
saidLordHenry,pullingthe
daisy
daisytobitswithhislongnervousfingers.
“I
kunne
couldnotgetridof
henne
her.
Shebroughtmeuptoroyalties,
og
andpeoplewithstarsandgarters,
og
andelderlyladieswithgigantictiaras
og
andparrotnoses.
Shespokeofmeasherdearest
venn
friend.
Ihadonlymetheronce
før
before,butshetookitintoher
hodet
headtolionizeme.
I
tror
believesomepictureofmine
hadde
hadmadeagreatsuccessat
den
thetime,atleasthadbeenchattered
om
aboutinthepennynewspapers,
som
whichisthenineteenth-centurystandardof
udødelighet
immortality.
SuddenlyIfoundmyself
ansikt
facetofacewiththe
unge
youngmanwhosepersonalityhadsostrangely
rørt
stirredme.