Dorian, or Through the Looking Glass
Unmovable, I stand motionless; it is not chains that bind me.
My eyes, fixed steadily upon cheerful passersby on the street below, peer through darkly transparent curtains. In contrast to my languid self, these happy souls are at peace with the world. Not so long ago, I was a companion to all, democratic in the society I kept. I see the world, I know the world from my lookout, five-storeys removed from the bustle of a life now abandoned.
After my abrupt withdrawal from constant companionship, these, my true friends, inquired after my state, leaving their cards with Hayworth as he, my faithful butler, politely but firmly turned them all away. Consequently, they ceased further inquiry into my health and caught up with their own lives and made tracks elsewhere. Needless to say, my doorway has not been brightened by old friends for a considerable time.
The August sun has been burning with her characteristic, seasonal fire. I cannot, for the life of me, be rid of this penetrating, bone-biting chill that has settled in at my core. When, one day, I had casually regarded my overall aspect in the bevelled glass of Mother's wardrobe mirror, I was taken aback by an aggressive increase in pallor, an uncharacteristic thinness of my once robust frame, a mallen streak creeping up my scalp.
Months passed, with myself confined to what had once been Mother's suite. I would not allow my curious eyes to wander toward the honesty of silvered glass. With the passage of time, I completely left off wondering about that horrid reflection cast in glass.
Despite my physical self's incremental change over time -- I one day forced myself to look head on into that dread mirror -- what frightened me most was the accelerated fading of my reflection. I looked down; the feet that had long supported me were now shrouded in vaporous mist, the fingers that had once made sweet music a shadowy tracery that clutched desperately at a face that no longer was . . .
As beautiful as Dorian Grey is,
I think, of all the books that Oscar Wilde wrote, the one that reminds the most of being a witness, ANY Witness, is "The Little Prince".
I love Oscar Wildes children stories. I think those 7 men should read ' The selfish Giant' and they may get a better idea of Jesus. Don't you?
Thanks, Diogenesister, for your comments. This story just came up about 45 minutes ago, although the initial posting aborted yesterday afternoon. Still can't figure it out.
Will look into the titles you suggested. Antoine de Saint-Exupery wrote The Little Prince, unless you're referring to that by Wilde?
Later, . . .
The Happy Prince, by Oscar Wilde.