The Picture of Dorian Gray

In the nineteenth century, the novel was young. Authors were wordier, readers allowed the time for it, and we hadn't yet created the theory that the first sentence of a book should be a hook.

The Picture of Dorian Gray became a classic, and I enjoyed reading it in high school. What remains in my memory is a delicious frisson of decadence and cruelty.

The first point that catches my attention now is that I'd definitely put a comma after "garden." Training as an editor will have that effect – my eyes are optimized for noting places to correct. One goal I have in the First Sentences series is to give myself a chance to savor a few words at a time.

Apparently, punctuation standards have changed. The original editor (or Oscar Wilde himself) may have preferred the older rule that every sentence should use commas in only one way; I find that the need to separate an opening clause from a main clause is more important than that rule. Thus, I'd add a comma.

Now that I've appeased my inner editor, I can stop and smell the roses – and the lilacs and the pink-flowering thorn. How audacious it seems to start a novel with three different scents! Very often, smell arrives only as an afterthought. At some point, well past the opening pages, a novel may contain a brief mention or two of scent. Future lovers notice each others' unique fragrance, past lovers mourn by sniffing abandoned clothing, detectives tense against the blood in the air marking a crime scene. Smell is the most visceral of senses – faster to call up memories than sight or hearing, broader than taste, sometimes even surpassing touch for the physicality of our response to it. Here are three flowers to evoke our senses, plus the wind to stir across our skin.

Wilde's sentence calls to the sense of smell first, with touch in the breeze and the implied heat of summer. Sight comes in through the named details and the word "pink," while the wind may also arouse hearing. Altogether, this is a strongly sensual opening.

There are no characters yet. A studio hints at an artist, so far unseen.

And what do we find as the freighted final word? Thorn. The most dangerous part of a flower gains the extra emphasis of coming last, and brings an edge and a warning to the heavily perfumed scene.

Well done, Mr. Wilde! That is an attractive, polished sentence, give or take one comma. (And I do appreciate the hyphen.) I'm eager to see what else your story offers.

Graphic design by Ken Silbert