the last book I ever read (Oscar Wilde's The Picture of Dorian Gray, excerpt five)

from The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde:

“Never marry a woman with straw-coloured hair, Dorian,” he said after a few puffs.

“Why, Harry?”

“Because they are so sentimental.”

“But I like sentimental people.”

“Never marry at all, Dorian. Men marry because they are tired; women, because they are curious: both are disappointed.”

the last book I ever read (Oscar Wilde's The Picture of Dorian Gray, excerpt four)

from The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde:

“How sad it is!” murmured Dorian Gray with his eyes still fixed upon his own portrait. “How sad it is! I shall grow old, and horrible, and dreadful. But this picture will remain always young. It will never be older than this particular day of June. . . . If it were only the other way! If it were I who was to be always young, and the picture that was to grow old! For that—for that—I would give everything! Yes, there is nothing in the whole world I would not give! I would give my soul for that!”

the last book I ever read (Oscar Wilde's The Picture of Dorian Gray, excerpt three)

from The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde:

Lord Henry looked at him. Yes, he was certainly wonderfully handsome, with his finely curved scarlet lips, his frank blue eyes, his crisp gold hair. There was something in his face that made one trust him at once. All the candour of youth was there, as well as all youth’s passionate purity. One felt that he had kept himself unspotted from the world. No wonder Basil Hallward worshipped him.

the last book I ever read (Oscar Wilde's The Picture of Dorian Gray, excerpt two)

from The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde:

“I think you are wrong, Basil, but I won’t argue with you. It is only the intellectually lost who ever argue. Tell me, is Dorian Gray very fond of you?”

The painter considered for a few moments. “He likes me,” he answered after a pause; “I know he likes me. Of course I flatter him dreadfully. I find a strange pleasure in saying things to him that I know I shall be sorry for having said. As a rule, he is charming to me, and we sit in the studio and talk of a thousand things. Now and then, however, he is horribly thoughtless, and seems to take a real delight in giving me pain. Then I feel, Harry, that I have given away my whole soul to some one who treats it as if it were a flower to put in his coat, a bit of decoration to charm his vanity, an ornament for a summer’s day.”

the last book I ever read (Oscar Wilde's The Picture of Dorian Gray, excerpt one)

from The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde:

Lord Henry elevated his eyebrows and looked at him in amazement through the thin blue wreaths of smoke that curled up in such fanciful whorls from his heavy, opium-tainted cigarette. “Not send it anywhere? My dear fellow, why? Have you any reason? What odd chaps you painters are! You do anything in the world to gain a reputation. As soon as you have one, you seem to want to throw it away. It is silly of you, for there is only one thing in the world worse than being talked about, and that is not being talked about. A portrait like this would set you far above all the young men in England, and make the old men quite jealous, if old men are ever capable of any emotion.”

“I know you will laugh at me,” he replied, “but I really can’t exhibit it. I have put too much of myself into it.”

the last book I ever read (Why Sinéad O'Connor Matters by Allyson McCabe, excerpt thirteen)

from Why Sinéad O'Connor Matters by Allyson McCabe:

So O’Connor wrote her book and now I’ve written mine. In between I managed to string miles and miles of tin cans together until they reached all the way across the ocean. When we Zoomed, I had so much to ask her, so many things that I wanted to say and couldn’t say. After we went through all the standard interview questions, which she answered coherently and candidly, O’Connor and I spoke at some length about Dylan and his influence. At one point she started reciting some of his song titles, which I started scribbling down on a Post-it note.

As she ticked them off, she looked off to the side and her speech slowed. She seemed to be losing herself for a moment, as though she were reliving something, rather than just listing titles or remembering songs. After the interview, while I was waiting for her to send me the recording she’d made of her side of our conversation, I put together a playlist. The next day I popped on my headphones and pulled it up as I started vacuuming my house—a chore I’d long neglected as I prepped for the call.

the last book I ever read (Why Sinéad O'Connor Matters by Allyson McCabe, excerpt twelve)

from Why Sinéad O'Connor Matters by Allyson McCabe:

Born in 1958, the same year as Michael Jackson, Prince broke through rock’s racist barrier at roughly the same time. His first attempt, like Jackson’s, was not successful. Although he was personally invited by Mick Jagger to open for the Rolling Stones at the LA Coliseum in 1981, when Prince took the stage in a see-through jacket, thigh-high boots, and black bikini pants, the headlining act’s 90,000-plus audience was not receptive.

Even though Prince’s setlist leaned toward the rock spectrum of his repertoire, with songs like “Bambi” and “When You Were Mine,” the audience booed, shouting racist and homophobic rants, then started pelting Prince and his band with food and bottles. Promoter Bill Graham jumped onstage, trying to calm the audience, but to no avail. By the fourth song, Prince was forced to leave the stage, understandably distraught by the experience.