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Wildey, Wildey and No Fun
Re-read 'De Profundis' (Wilde), for my class 'Homotextuality in Literature' this morning. The first time I read it, I remember hating it. Presumably because I had just read a lot of his plays and expected more of the same. De Profundis is as far from comedy as you can get. It is the heart-breaking letter Wilde wrote Alfred Douglas, whose father publicly ruined him. And whose friendship he describes as, among other things, fatal.
Wilde is, as always, supremely quotable. The theme that 'the supreme vice is shallowness. Whatever is realized is right' recurs throughout, I counted at least four instances. He allegedly wrote it one page at a time, in Reading Gaol, being allowed only one sheet of paper at any given time. It is impressively cohesive, he seems to recall perfectly what he has already written.
It's powerful reading, the explanation of a fallen man of how he fell and how he resolves to continue. Wilde renounces his previous lifestyle in part, intimating that some of the charges against him were true: 'my life has been full of perverse pleasure', he confesses to a friend that believes he is innocent. It is addressed to Alfred Douglas, much of it chronicles their friendship and how it was a horrible idea from the beginning.
While it is not my favourite work of his, it is beautiful. And invaluable for anyone looking to understand Wilde, both before and after his fall.
No clue where the awful title came from.
Wilde is, as always, supremely quotable. The theme that 'the supreme vice is shallowness. Whatever is realized is right' recurs throughout, I counted at least four instances. He allegedly wrote it one page at a time, in Reading Gaol, being allowed only one sheet of paper at any given time. It is impressively cohesive, he seems to recall perfectly what he has already written.
It's powerful reading, the explanation of a fallen man of how he fell and how he resolves to continue. Wilde renounces his previous lifestyle in part, intimating that some of the charges against him were true: 'my life has been full of perverse pleasure', he confesses to a friend that believes he is innocent. It is addressed to Alfred Douglas, much of it chronicles their friendship and how it was a horrible idea from the beginning.
While it is not my favourite work of his, it is beautiful. And invaluable for anyone looking to understand Wilde, both before and after his fall.
No clue where the awful title came from.
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