After reading The Picture of Dorian Gray, it is difficult to grasp what Oscar Wilde’s true feelings on aestheticism and Hedonism were; he was likely uncertain himself. Given Dorian’s tragic death, I want to say Wilde doubted the idea of a life of vice and art for art’s sake; but in the preface to the book, he writes gems like “no artist desires to prove anything.” Whether Wilde truly agreed with the sentiments in the preface or not, they are self-defeating. To say artists are not trying to prove anything is, in fact, a claim that demands proving; this is an inescapable catch-22 that aesthetes cannot conquer. And yet, maybe Wilde attempted such a conquering with his novel; by having characters tout so many counter-intuitive philosophies simultaneously, readers are left wondering what the moral is—which is, in some ways, the same as there being none whatsoever. It seems as if the book proves nothing. Except I do feel a point in the story because while my head wonders, my heart knows: Dorian’s life and death are tragic things. Tonight’s song is an audio rebuttal to many sentiments in Dorian Gray. I believe in didactic art, art that has a point. I am always making a point when I create. Always. Now, I do not claim my view is right (I’m doubtful there even is such a thing as right and wrong); rather, I want to prove that my view/idea/emotion merely is—that it exists—and, in existing, is valid. The best part of this creation is that the lyrics make a point about making a point, thus achieving a double whammy of an up-yours to aesthetes. I dedicate this post to these great blogs with Oscar Wilde/book content: fuckyeahoscarwilde, oscarwildeassembly, owildeapproves, and fitzfaustus. This was fun, so if you listeners have any other pieces of fiction that you’d like to hear a song about, make a request! — Kavalier

     The Song of Dorian Gray

Lord Henry certainly is a fascinating fellow,
with his mouth full of Hedon’s jello
and endless chatter about pleasing the senses.
And narcissist, you soaked it up:
every word of that yellow-covered book.
Now you’re against nature,
and it’s against you.

Dorian, you Faustian devil,
Sibyl’s death was not a one act play;
and it was you, not the knife
who took Basil’s life away.

The point is, you can’t escape blame.
The world doesn’t happen to you;
you happen to the world
and everyone around you.
We aren’t objects;
we aren’t just stones.
We are a living, breathing,
destiny shaping gods on thrones.

The choice is you,
you are what you choose.
If there’s no point to what you do
then, Dorian, why do
anything?