The man who really stabbed Dorian

           A blank sheet of paper. Plop. A drop of black ink falls, right on the center of the sheet. The instant it touches the sheet, it spreads like wild fire, consuming every whiteness as it pervades the sheet of paper, leaving behind sheer blackness. This is how Dorian Gray, a white sheet of paper, an epitome of purity and naivety, transforms into evil. It is Lord Henry that drops a drop of ink that consumes Dorian Gray at a frightening speed. It is Lord Henry who, although he may not have the intention to cause what he triggers eventually, is accountable for the devilish, wretched man who lies at the floor, stabbed by a knife, at the end of the book. It is Lord Henry, metaphorically speaking, who stabs Dorian Gray.

            Lord Henry corrupts Dorian Gray’s mind in numerous ways. One of them that cause the pitiful transformation of Dorian is when Lord Henry instills in Dorian’s mind the importance of beauty – not as in inner beauty, but physical beauty. Henry views art, or beauty, as the ultimate goal of life. He thus believes that other values deemed more valuable by the society such as virtue can be sacrificed for art. After conversing with Henry while posing for Basil’s picture, Dorian gets obsessed with beauty, especially eternal beauty. Bewildered but firmly persuaded, he cries out, “I am jealous of everything whose beauty does not die. I am jealous of the portrait you have painted of me…Why did you paint it? It will mock me some day,-mock me horribly!” Such intense desire to maintain eternal beauty of his picture is actualized in this fictitious novel; Dorian never grows old or unsightly, only the picture does. When Basil accuses Lord Henry of his corruptive influence, Henry merely shrugs, saying that he had just helped find the real Dorian Gray.

            Lord Henry’s influence does not stop at merely providing a new perspective on beauty. The ultimate push that drives Dorian plunging down to the abyss of vice is given when Lord Henry talks about the death of Sibyl. Although Dorian Gray is contaminated by his obsessive desire for eternal beauty, he is not completely full of vice yet; he may be dappled with dark spots, but not completely black. This is illustrated by his initial repentance on his ruthless conduct towards Sibyl; he deeply regrets hurting Sibyl, and vows to marry Sibyl. The nobility of this decision stands out in the fact that Dorian Gray, when vowing to marry Sibyl, is still ambivalent about her; his intention is to purely atone for his wrong conduct. This is where Lord Henry untimely comes in, with the news of Sibyl’s death. However, it is not the news of Sibyl’s death that gives the final push. Henry tells Dorian to view Sibyl’s death not as a miserable tragedy, but an artistic sacrifice. Thus, rather than lamenting and repenting, he gets over Sibyl’s death. He compromises his conscience, which is manifest in his thoughts: “Had she cursed him, as she died? No; she had died for love of him, and love would always be a sacrament to him now. She had atoned for everything, by the sacrifice she had made of her life.” He views Sibyl as having died and accomplishing true and eternal beauty, therefore nothing for him to feel guilty about.

            Most importantly, the yellow book that Henry gives to Dorian, which he describes himself a ‘poisonous book’, devours every bit of goodness left in Dorian. He then embarks on a series of heinous conducts of moral turpitude, represented by his murder of Basil Hallward, whom he regarded as one of his indispensable companions. His end is tragic; he stabs a knife into his portrait, which has bore all the manifestation of his age and vice. As most readers would predict, the destruction of the portrait leads to the ‘real’ Dorian’s death. Ultimately Lord Henry, unaware of his tremendous influence on the young man who couldn’t bear the sudden inrush of the radical philosophy, tugs the strings for Dorian to act beyond corruption.

Short Story of a Nerd, Wang Jing

         Burping, I raised my upper body from the hard, wooden bed. Or more precisely, I awoke from by burp. I slowly opened my eyelids. A huge, self-made poster of Shakespeare on the ceiling came into view. I payed my tribute by reciting my favorite line, “We know what we are, but know not what we may be.”

         I got out of bed, looked at the clock to check whether it was 6am(it was), and started packing. Mom had already gone to work, so I made myself- or flung into the oven - some jiaozi(ground meat or vegetable filling wrapped into a thinly rolled piece of dough), devoured them quickly, and set out to school.

        I live in a Chinese town. My house is built on a precipice that faces the ocean;the other 3 sides fall on a straggle of  small, rather filthy houses, set apart by criss-cross of walls. Mom and dad had originally planned to send me to a local Chinese school, but I had strongly insisted to attend an American school that was an hour walk away from my home. Part of it, of course, was because I desperately wanted to learn English from a more natural environment. Part of it, although I had never disclosed this secret to anyone, was because of the girls. Oddly, I am extremely enamored by brown hair of girls in my age. The most intricate jewels pale in comparison to the myriad hues of brown hair, ranging from chocolate, dark brown to light, radiant brown as that of a wild horse’s man. I’m afraid to admit that my hobby is to collect hair that fall out from girls of brown hair. I won’t go far as to elaborate on how I collect them.

         Flipping over cards of SAT words, I followed a series of narrow paths for a while to enter an American town, glad to extricate myself from the Chinese smell. When I got to school and entered the classroom, I was utterly shocked. Amber was already there, before me. She raised her head when I entered the classroom. With a casual look that seemed to be a part of her, following her everywhere in every situation, she curtly said, “Hi”. Then she dropped her head again, and vigorously went on to what she was doing, which I never got to find out for my shock. A mix of emotions swirled inside my head; so strong and tangled the emotions were, that I stood there for a few seconds to overcome them. First, I took great umbrage at myself for not being the first to arrive at class. That I probably had left home earlier than her, considering the hour-long walk, failed to act as solace. Second, I was impressed by her eagerness to study, which I had never regarded as particular. Third, I was overwhelmed by joy that at least from that moment, I wasn’t the only nerd in class - I instantly created an empathy for her. Lastly, and most importantly, I was entranced by her amazingly beautiful, brown hair. The velvety threads of silk shone in the bright morning light the windows let in.

         Gggghfffff!

         Oh, I cursed my habit of burping. Every un-nerdy and unscholarly instinct left inside me desperately told me that this might be the first and last chance to befriend a girl. What’s more, she wasn’t any girl; I had always dreamt of her and had spent time with her(it was either her or Shakespeare) in my fantasies. 

         Gggghfffff!

         This time, she let out a small giggle. Was she laughing at me, or was she genuinely amused? It was no time to entrap myself in pessimistic thoughts. Casually, I walked to my desk, flung down my bag on the desk, deliberately making a loud noise, and glanced to see whether Amber was looking. To my surprise, she was.

         Gggghfffff!

         She giggled again. Activating every cell of confidence inside me, I asked, “Why did you come so early?”

         “My mom got really frustrated with my mid-term score, so she forced me,” she said, with a grimace.

         Without allowing any time to respond, she added, “By the way, isn’t it the first time I’m talking to you?”

         “Yeah, I’m the problem. I’m afraid of talking to girls. Actually, this is the first time I’m talking to any girl in this class.”

         Then, for some reason, I blurted out, “So think of it as an honor.” Immediately, I felt hot blood rushing to my face. Why in the world did I say that? Out of embarrassment, I let out a burp.

         Gggghfffff!         

         This time, she chuckled, making an effort to be polite.

         “I certainly will. Um, is that a habit?” 
     “Yeah, it gets worse when I get nervous.”

         “Oh, so you are nervous. I was quite surprised when you talked to me first,” she said, with a tone of mild amusement.

         “Awfully, to be honest,” I admitted.

         But at the same time, I was quickly gaining composure by the fact that, astonishingly, I was having a normal conversation with a girl, especially a brunette. The conversation went on for a while, until Amber’s friend came in and interrupted. The conversation was nothing of particularly enthralling, but it was probably the most magical moment in my life. After school, I quietly sneaked up on her and asked, “Coming early again tomorrow?”

         She nodded, with a faint smile. I awkwardly waved my right hand, and too embarrassed to converse with her publicly, turned my back before she even waved her hand back.

            On my way back home,  I savored every minute of the walk; the world suddenly seemed so beautiful. When I finally got home, I jumped on my bed. Looking at Shakespeare, I said, “Oh, Amber, my Juliet”

Power of Communication

Power of Communication 

     

     One of the things I love to do is traveling. I developed my taste for traveling when my family, including me, stayed in Virginia, US for about a year and a half. During that one year and a half, we traveled a lot; we flew west to stand in awe of the Grand Canyon, to be absorbed by the vivacious ambience of Las Vegas, and to enjoy the relaxed atmosphere of western cities; we flew North to gape at the sight of Niagara Falls; we drove several days south to drop by Florida to visit Disney World and drove some days more to Key West, where all of us were entranced by the beautiful color of the sea. 

     There are a lot more to talk about, but I will stop here to recall one special trip:Cancun. The trip is special to me not only because I had such a fabulous time, probably the best of all trips, but also because it gave me a lesson about the power of communication. We took a package tour to Cancun, a city in southeastern Mexico that has maintained its fame as a world-renowned tourist destination for its beautiful ocean, neat city layout, and archaeological sites. But for me, Cancun is all about hotels. The hotel my family stayed in for a week was fantastic; the blue ocean stretched from my feet the moment I exited the hotel and numerous amenities like restaurants and pools invited me to a paradise on earth.

     In this trip to paradise, my family came across a remarkable incident. After our package team entered the hotel, the tour guide gave us the keys for our rooms. The rooms were expensive as the hotel was luxurious, so rather than staying in a large family-size room, we decided to use separate rooms two by two. 

     My father and I received the key to our room and took the elevator. But when we opened the door, we were taken aback by what the room held for us. Instead of neatly organized beds, there was a luggage sprawled open on the floor with clothes everywhere. But we noticed that a few seconds later because a woman, apparently shocked, was staring at us. Although I can't recall her appearance well, she seemed to be an American women in her thirties.At that time, I was just a little third-grader and wasn't fluent in English. My dad wasn't so different. I don't know how we did it, but we overcame our shock and managed to communicate. It turned out that she was in her room rightfully - she wasn't a burglar or anything like that - and we had been wrongly assigned to the room by the counter woman. 

     Mom and my sister had been assigned to the right room, thankfully, and we met in the lobby to complain to the counter. At the time, my sister, who was attending middle school then, was quite fluent in speaking English. She was clearly the best speaker in the family, so she took the job of complaining.I was stunned by how confidently she went up to the counter and started speaking. After some exchange of words, she raised her voice; she seemed a bit angry. The women at the counter checked the screen, made a phone call, and said something to my sister.She gave my sister a key, and my sister walked to us with a mark of triumph on her face. She proudly said, "We are staying in the suite room." 

     The rest of us were immediately overwhelmed by surprise and delight at the abrupt news of fortune. It turned out that the woman at the counter had made an apology and assigned another room of the same price, but my sister had complained and demanded compensation, so after noticing that the suite room was empty, the counter woman had given us the room. 

     The hotel comprised thousands of rooms with different sizes and amenities, but there were only two suite rooms. When we entered the room, I found myself in a room that I had never imagined I would ever stay in. Everything in the room is worth talking about, starting from the lights to the room service, but the best part was the balcony that held an unforgettable view of the ocean and a whole spa for our own. That day, we stuffed our luggage in the room my sister and mother had been assigned originally, and spent the evening in the spa, relishing the endless ocean and the starlit night sky. 

     In my bed, I thought about how we wouldn't have stayed in the suite room if my sister hadn't spoken with confidence and fluency. I made a small wish that I, like my sister, would also be able to speak with such confidence and not be afraid to communicate in any situation.