I only read when my OCD kicks in

Introduction
This is a good book, however, one major crictical flaw that I am finding in Oscar Wilde's writing style is that he loves run on sentences. Examples to follow as I document my notes. I do love his writing style aside from that though.

Plot
This is the story of Dorian Gray, a self indulged fellow that has a painting of himself by his friend Basil Hallward. Basil falls in love with Dorian as he becomes obsessed by his beauty even to the point of thinking that it creates the only new form of his art. Dorian meets Lord Henry Wotton, a friend of Basil's,who influences Dorian in a negative way by changing his world view into self serving only. Realizing in fear that his beauty will fade, Dorian comically expresses a desire to sell his soul to ensure the portrait Basil has painted would age rather than himself. Dorian's wish is granted, which throws him into deeper and deeper acts of sin. The portrait acts as a mirror to his soul as with each sin displayed as a disfigurement of his form, or through a sign of aging.

Quotes that stuck with me from this book:

"Conscience and cowardice are really the same things. Basil, Conscience is the trade-name of the firm. That is all."

I see things differently, I think of them differently> I can now recreate life in a way that was hidden from me before. 'A dream of form in days of thought'

The word is wide, and has many marvellous people in it. Don't take away from me the one person who gives to my art whatever charm it possesses

Music had stirred him like that. Music had troubled him many times. But music was not articulate. It was not a new world, but rather another chaos, that it created in us. Words! Mere words! How terrible they were! How clear, and vivid, and cruel!

Nowadays most people die of a sort of creeping common sense, and discover when it is too late that the only things one never regrets are one's mistakes.

"People are very fond of giving away what they need most themselves. It is what I call depth of genorosity."

We always misunderstood ourselves and rarely understood others. Experience was of no ethical value. It was merely the name men gave to their mistakes.

He was trying to gather up the scarlet threads of life and to weave them into a pattern; to find his way through the sanguine labyrinth of passion through which he was wandering. He did not know what to do, or what to think.

When we blame ourselves we feel that no one else has a right to blame us.

It is the confession, not the priest, that gives us absolution.