I have an interesting relationship with this book, which has very little relation to its actual contents. Often, when I stop reading or watching or listening to something, I could not tell you why. Maybe I got distracted? Maybe I wasn’t feeling it? Fuck knows. In this case, I remember exactly why I stopped three years ago.
Let me ask you a question: do you know the Clothbound Classic?
If you’ve been in a Waterstones in the past 5 years, the chances of you at least seeing these on a dedicated stand is guaranteed. Perhaps you picked one up to look at the pretty patterns. Perhaps you own one yourself. Perhaps it sits on your coffee table, where it draws the eye away from your shoddy IKEA construction job and signals to everyone that enters your home that you’re a Person Of Culture.
Have you actually read it?
And the thing is, when I say this, I sound like I’m being a pretentious twat. Look! look everyone! This person bought a pretty pile of pages purely for aesthetic value! A mass-produced pulp now sits on a shelf to only be ogled and never be read! The very reason these books were made is being exercised right in front of us! Shame! Shame unto their bloodline for a thousand years!
Or whatever.
But the question is far more literal than that. Have you picked up a Clothbound Classic, physically, in your hands, and proceeded to read it front-to-back? Or, let me get to the root of this. Have you held a Clothbound Classic—which is, in fact, a book, an item you would be expecting to hold in your hands for a significant period of time—for a significant period of time?
You might be wondering about that cover. As the name implies, the covers are cloth of some kind. What about the patterns on top of it? Those are very clean lines to be sewn on or woven into the fabric. Instead, these are cut shapes secured on the fabric. I couldn’t tell you the specific material on account of not knowing shit from fuck, but my gut instinct is vinyl. This is a vinyl1 that has been, in whatever way it has, glued on top of some fabric. When being held or pulled pressed over and over, the vinyl is agitated. What happens next?
It sheds.
Everywhere.
My first Clothbound was Dracula, driven by that first go at Dracula Daily that Tumblr became obsessed with. After my first read, I noticed that sections of the flower patterns had started to fade. I thought that was strange, and wondered what happened. Minutes later, I saw flecks of black on my hands, and got the answer. Everytime I opened it to read again, the same story would play out. More wear, more black.
Hours, days after I put down the book, I’d notice this black shit popping up everywhere. I’d change my clothes and pieces would come up on my skin. I’d be typing and notice it on my keyboard. I could be doing anything, and this fucking infestation would find a new way to pop into my life.
So I was disappointed, in what I assumed was a defect with my specific copy. At the same time I bought Dracula, I also bought the Clothbound of The Picture of Dorian Gray. A little after, I picked up Dorian, and read.
And a few reading sessions later, lo, there it was. The peacock pattern had worn away, and my hands were now covered in white bullshit.
I stopped reading the book because of it. Dorian is significantly shorter than Dracula, but I’d had enough. I hated these covers. I hated everything about them and refused to suffer through the reading experience of this a second time.
So now, everytime I go into a Waterstones and see these stupid fucking books on their big fancy table, I turn up my nose. If I’m with someone, I’ll complain loudly and warn them how that pattern is just begging to shed and scatter all over your lovely belongings. I don’t think anyone’s heeded that warning, or given a single shit, but I have to do it to soothe myself.
Half my motivation for this review was just to get my burning hatred of these stupid fucking covers out in public. Maybe I should talk about the actual book.
When I was in Germany for A.MAZE this year, I went with some friends of mine, turning it into a bit of a holiday. All of us being avid readers in wildly different disciplines, we ended up in a bookshop on recommendation. This recommendation mostly came from its selection of gay porn, but there were also some English language imports, and a new range of overpriced royalty-free releases.
And these things looked gorgeous.
I fell in love immediately. I needed them. Though, at first, I resisted. I already had these classics; why do I need another version?
Then I realised I’m a fucking idiot. As much as Dorian was high on my reading list, I knew I was going to look for every excuse to avoid it if I had to touch that stupid Clothbound again, so I bought it.2 True to that prediction, I’ve read the entire thing without thinking for a second about the physical object I’m holding.
And it’s very good.
There’s a certain feeling of going into a famous and lauded book, and just going, yeah, it really is that good. It’s a nice one, most of the time. Sometimes it makes you angry how someone can be that good at this. I didn’t quite hit that level with Dorian, but it was wonderful seeing someone understand the craft that well diving fully into it.
I also think the book lives up to its controversies, too. I was just expecting a couple hints at homoeroticism or a metaphor or two for gay sex. Instead, I completely get why the Victorians were so scandalised by this thing. Wilde cuts through the Victorian psyche so precisely, showing all the hypocrisies and putrid decadence and bullshit without any filters. It’s almost like he was writing in protest to a society that would (and did) try to kill him, and knew he’d still get done in for subtlety, so he went all-in from line one.
The worst part, at least for me, is seeing the throughline from this version of British society to the current one we’re under today. I’m “only” middle class, so it’s being able to re-examine backwash that we fashion into a pale imitation of the real thing. The shit said behind closed doors and what you then say out in the open. The expectations and behaviour that no one can really say why you should do. Clean steps. Every other line felt like a knife twist; as much as this stupid island’s evolved in leaps and bounds, we really are still this stupid fucking island in the end.
I also really enjoyed the Point of the book, so to speak, and how the prose reflects it. It’s all about that idea of hedonism, a very British and upper class distortion of it, to take and pillage without critical reflection. The descriptions in the opening chapters are some of the most vivid imagery I’ve had beamed into my brain. I saw a colour in one of them; most of the time I’m just in pale greys. The bits of Dorian buying about every treasure on the planet just going on and on and never seeming to come to an end. I almost felt a bit ill running through how rich it was, in practically every sense.
My final bit of lauding, that I loved the progression of Dorian. How his apparent fall from grace is told from an internal perspective. Instead of all the terrible stuff he’s done—why would he care about that?—we’re just focusing on the luxuries he’s surrounded by. The trips he’s been on. How much he hoards to bring back home. Only when Basil comes in to crash the scene do we learn, third-hand, from him repeating rumours and speculation, how horrible Dorian’s become. And even then, I was thinking: Nah, come on. Really? I know he’s getting a bit much with his spending habits, but, really? Has he done anything that bad?
And if you’ve read it, you know what happens next.
I absolutely loved this book. It feels like a perfect example of writing technique used to effect. There were bits that flew over my head, or sections that did go on a bit longer than I might have wanted, but I never felt like it was there because Wilde was feeling himself and just wanted to do it for the sake of doing it. Everything feels intentional, in quite stark contrast to Dorian’s descent.
And like everyone else, now I’m mad that was his only novel. What would his actual magnum opus have looked like? Do I have to start reading his plays, now? Am I going to finally evolve into someone who reads theatre, which I could not even conceive as a 15 year old forced to sit through one (1) Shakespeare play for a GCSE?
It’s character development, I suppose.