Oscar Wilde

Throughout this quarter, Oscar Wilde has become a very close friend. As most of you know, I'm taking a class on Oscar Wilde this quarter. I've read his plays, fairy tales, essays, poems, stories, etc. and this week, we reached the tragic part of his life. Wilde was in his forties when he was put on trial for "Acts of Gross Indecency". (Yes, you could go to prison for that in Victorian England) His biggest offense was his relationship with Lord Alfred "Bosie" Douglas. Bosie's father started the downward spiral when he famously left a card for Wilde, saying, "To Oscar Wilde, posing as a Somdomite" (Yes, he spelled it wrong). Oscar's entire life was scrutinized in his trials (there were three), as well as some of his writing. The trials were, of course, highly publicized, and quite dehumanizing. He ended up in prison for two years. After a year of hard labor and solitary confinement, Wilde was allowed pen and paper. He wrote a 90 page letter to Bosie, called De Profundis ("Out of the depths"), and it's heartbreaking and magnificent. This is just a small part of it that I loved:

"Society, as we have constituted it, will have no place for me, has none to offer; but Nature, whose sweet rains fall on unjust and just alike, will have clefts in the rocks where I may hide, and secret valleys in whose silence I may weep undisturbed. She will hang the night with stars so that I may walk abroad in the darkness without stumbling, and send the wind over my footprints so that none may track me to my hurt: she will cleanse me in great waters, and with bitter herbs make me whole."

Yes. Oscar Wilde.

PS I've decided to challenge myself during Lent to post a new poem every day. I couldn't think of anything to give up, so instead, I'm adding a few things. Poetry brings such a richness to life, so I'm committing to a new poem everyday. I hope you take time to read them - don't worry, I don't usually ramble on this much...

Oscar Wilde

I have the glorious privilege of taking a class entirely focused on Oscar Wilde this quarter. Wilde is one of the most skillful wordsmiths who has ever lived (and not just in my opinion). He could write about folding laundry, and it would be exquisite. I'm not sure why I'm posting this passage, but I just found it marvelously beautiful. The context is mostly irrelevant, although I HIGHLY recommend reading The Picture of Dorian Gray, because I'm only on the second chapter, and I'm completely enthralled. So here's a fairly random sampling of this beautiful book:

Dorian Gray listened, open-eyed and wondering. The spray of lilac fell from his hand upon the gravel. A furry bee came and buzzed round it for a moment. Then it began to scramble all over the fretted purple of the tiny blossoms. He watched it with that strange interest in trivial things that we try to develop when things of high import make us afraid, or when we are stirred by some new emotion, for which we cannot find expression, or when some thought that terrifies us lays sudden siege to the brain and calls on us to yield. After a time it flew away. He saw it creeping into the stained trumpet of a Tyrian convolvulus. The flower seemed to quiver, and then swayed gently to and fro.