002 - Video [private]. And later, Text [private to Adrian Veidt].
[The first part of this entry is completely private. Dorian wrote in his journal for himself only. Afterwards, he addresses a note to Adrian Veidt. Adrian is the only character who is able to leave a response to this entry. I am sorry for any and all confusion.]
[Video. Private... Dorian is talking to himself and no-one else.]
[The video feed switches on. Dorian looks exhausted and his exhaustion seems to have aged him. It is clear he has not slept since he was given by Adrian Veidt not one but two copies of The Picture of Dorian Gray, during the course of the previous evening. Dorian sits in silence for a long time with the video feed on. He is holding one of the offending books. The other is nowhere to be seen. Dorian's voice seems collected, but the calm is his exhaustion. Those living near Room 1 on the Seventh floor have likely heard angry ranting coming from his room in this last twenty four hours. They do not know what he has been saying unless they spent the time with an ear pressed to his door (which would just be creepy) just that he has been screaming and things may have been thrown.]
I have been made aware that there has been a book written about my life. It was suggested that some might think that it is not a book about me, but rather that the book came first and that my existence is merely coincidence or magic. I would say such a claim is ridiculous, however... [Dorian makes a helpless gesture, hands raised to the ceiling, the book gripped tightly in the left.] ...I have lived nearly two decades and not aged a day, so... who am I to say what is impossible?
[Dorian sits on the edge of his bed and stares down at the hardcover book in his hands.]
Oscar Wilde. [He speaks with contempt, thumb tracing the depressed lettering on the cover.] I do not know who this man is, or how it is that he knows me, but he knows everything, every detail, every word. I am the only person who could possibly know these things, but I clearly did not write this. It is as if the author's name was assumed. If I had to take a guess, I think I should suspect this was written by Harry.
I do not understand why he would do something like this to me... why he would write everything down and distribute it. [A pause. A flash of anger.] It is like him, however. Why not incriminate me in a book? He did, after all, poison me with one. Harry... he has been the cause of my ruination, and he may be the cause of my public disgrace. Or perhaps worse.
Should I ever meet him again... [Dorian's voice shakes as he speaks, and his grip on the book tightens.] ... I will kill him. I swear it.
[Some time later, after Dorian has collected himself, he writes privately to Adrian Veidt.]
Adrian Veidt,
Nothing that is written in this book is true, aside from some of the names and the fact that a painting was created in my image. This book is nothing more than a cruel joke, insofar as I can tell. I have not even met many of the people mentioned in its pages, though I suspect this has been written by Henry under an assumed name in order to extort money from my family. Or perhaps Basil wrote it. He is not dead, as the book suggests; he was in London the last that I was aware. It is likely that he has run out of money, as artists are wont to do, and penned this to sell a scandal to the press.
At any rate, I thank you for making this filth known to me. I am, I must admit, at a loss as to how I should go about clearing my name. Do you know, is this story generally taken as fact? I should publish a correction.
Sincerely,
Dorian Gray
[Video. Private... Dorian is talking to himself and no-one else.]
[The video feed switches on. Dorian looks exhausted and his exhaustion seems to have aged him. It is clear he has not slept since he was given by Adrian Veidt not one but two copies of The Picture of Dorian Gray, during the course of the previous evening. Dorian sits in silence for a long time with the video feed on. He is holding one of the offending books. The other is nowhere to be seen. Dorian's voice seems collected, but the calm is his exhaustion. Those living near Room 1 on the Seventh floor have likely heard angry ranting coming from his room in this last twenty four hours. They do not know what he has been saying unless they spent the time with an ear pressed to his door (which would just be creepy) just that he has been screaming and things may have been thrown.]
I have been made aware that there has been a book written about my life. It was suggested that some might think that it is not a book about me, but rather that the book came first and that my existence is merely coincidence or magic. I would say such a claim is ridiculous, however... [Dorian makes a helpless gesture, hands raised to the ceiling, the book gripped tightly in the left.] ...I have lived nearly two decades and not aged a day, so... who am I to say what is impossible?
[Dorian sits on the edge of his bed and stares down at the hardcover book in his hands.]
Oscar Wilde. [He speaks with contempt, thumb tracing the depressed lettering on the cover.] I do not know who this man is, or how it is that he knows me, but he knows everything, every detail, every word. I am the only person who could possibly know these things, but I clearly did not write this. It is as if the author's name was assumed. If I had to take a guess, I think I should suspect this was written by Harry.
I do not understand why he would do something like this to me... why he would write everything down and distribute it. [A pause. A flash of anger.] It is like him, however. Why not incriminate me in a book? He did, after all, poison me with one. Harry... he has been the cause of my ruination, and he may be the cause of my public disgrace. Or perhaps worse.
Should I ever meet him again... [Dorian's voice shakes as he speaks, and his grip on the book tightens.] ... I will kill him. I swear it.
[Some time later, after Dorian has collected himself, he writes privately to Adrian Veidt.]
Adrian Veidt,
Nothing that is written in this book is true, aside from some of the names and the fact that a painting was created in my image. This book is nothing more than a cruel joke, insofar as I can tell. I have not even met many of the people mentioned in its pages, though I suspect this has been written by Henry under an assumed name in order to extort money from my family. Or perhaps Basil wrote it. He is not dead, as the book suggests; he was in London the last that I was aware. It is likely that he has run out of money, as artists are wont to do, and penned this to sell a scandal to the press.
At any rate, I thank you for making this filth known to me. I am, I must admit, at a loss as to how I should go about clearing my name. Do you know, is this story generally taken as fact? I should publish a correction.
Sincerely,
Dorian Gray