Wilde is one of my favorite writers–even his critical essays are a joy to read.
Like Otto points out, De Profundis is a very long letter to Bosie, written while Wilde was in Reading Gaol. Bosie comes out of it looking like an extremely selfish, spoiled brat (which by most accounts he probably was), who used Wilde to get back at his father (the Marquis of Queensbury).
Wilde’s testimony during the first trial (the libel case against Queensbury) is brilliant at many points, and includes the famous defense of “the love that dare not speak its name” (which was not from a Wilde poem, but from one of Bosie’s poems). Of course, Wilde shot himself in the foot by joking about how he didn’t kiss a certain young man because he was too ugly.
As for Wilde’s religious beliefs, it’s hard to say what they exactly were. I’m not sure if I would characterize him as an atheist. He often expressed an interest in Catholicism; after his release from prison, he had hoped to spend some time at a French monastery while recuperating (the monks turned down his request), and I believe he attended mass in Rome (maybe even at St. Peter’s?). And he did actually convert to Catholicism on his deathbed (his tomb in Paris describes Wilde as being received into the Church). But I don’t know how much of this interest in Catholicism was motivated by genuinely Catholic beliefs or by a deeply aesthetic appreciation for the ritual of the Church–I suppose only Wilde could tell us.
Ellmann’s biography of Wilde is very good. I would also second the film Wilde; Stephen Fry is quite good, and Jude Law plays an excellent Bosie.
Just to clarify a point in my post: Wilde’s famous defense of “the love that dare not speak its name” actually occured in the first criminal trial (the second of the three Wilde trials), not the libel case against Queensbury.
It was during the libel case (the first of the three trials) that Wilde slipped up and made the joke about why he didn’t kiss a particular young man.
N.B. There were three trials involving Wilde:
1.) the libel case against Queensbury (Bosie’s father) for referring to Wilde as “posing as a sodomite” (or “somdomite,” as Queensbury badly misspelt it). Wilde’s case was dismissed after the defense was able to suggest that there was enough evidence to support Queensbury’s allegation.
2.) The first criminal case against Wilde, which followed as a matter of course after the libel case was dismissed (if Wilde had indeed practiced homosexual acts, then he was in violation of Section 11 of the Criminal Law Amendment Act of 1885). This case resulted in a hung jury.
3.) The second criminal case against Wilde, in which Wilde was found guilty and sentenced to two years of hard labor (the most severe sentence that could be imposed).
Gyrate (you’ll always be jr8 to me): That’s a great excerpt. I bow to your google skills–I tried to find De Profundis on line and couldn’t–could you confirm for twickster and me that your linked site is the complete De Profundis and not just an excerpt (if you know)?
Otto: I didn’t know that the Ballad was originally published under Wilde’s prisoner number. Do you know what that number was? Which actually brings me right to my next point:
I agree completely about the simplicity of the language. Even most of the words themselves are short and simple. I imagine that Wilde did this to make the poem sound like the lament of “any prisoner/man.” (Ties right in to publishing under a number and not a name.) After all, most prisoners/men are not capable of writing in a complicated, high-literary style. They are “simple” and uneducated. The repetition of phrases with slight alterations works for this too. (Actually, most of Wilde’s stuff uses a simple, non-florid style which I like–which makes me ask whether or not he is considered a romantic, like Shelley, another guy with a large-sized life. If you click on the link to the Ballad in my OP, you get a gorgeous photo of Wilde as a romantic. While he may have been a “romantic” in real life, I would say that his writings were not romantic in either style or content–and I’m including Dorian Gray, which is horror but which condemns romantic sensibilities [and Wilde himself?].)
Hey, we can even use this theory to excuse the lines which are clunkers (and I think there are a few) as giving reality to a poor man’s poem:
“By each let this be heard” is not such a great line, but it fits with the position of the poem.
Again, a typical man may not be able to make rhymes out of Greek/Latin classical ideas, but he may well have read his Bible. The Ballad has tons of Christian imagery. In that great first stanza Fatwater Fewl quoted above, right out of the gate, we’ve got a reference to blood and wine. Here’s another:
It makes sense to me that he was apparently a death-bed convert, as Wendell mentioned–it seems a very unusual poem for an atheist (but of course it is possible).
[aside]
As I look at that convict number again after reading Humble Servant’s last post once more, I find it fascinating in a weird sort of way that it is the same as the supposed age of Christ when he died.
Or not so weird, I suppose: having lived with that number for his term of imprisonment, I imagine a mind like Wilde’s would have considered many times how it echoed Christ’s biblical age and would have found in it fuel for the imagery of the poem.
[/aside]
Another important thing to remember that’s crucial to understanding Wilde’s poetry and drama: the naked actor under naked Jude Law in bed in one scene was a then unknown Orlando Bloom.
Poking around in the links, Wilde’s “what is art” writing may espouse the substantive romanticism that seems absent in the style of Earnest, Dorian and Reading Gaol. Here’s a quotation to ponder (from **Skopo’s ** link):
And in De Profundis, Wilde refers to Christ as “charming,” and means it as praise. Gotta wonder how much of this reflects “I will turn my life into art” and how much is an attempt to be witty.
It is sweet to dance to violins
When Love and Life are fair:
To dance to flutes, to dance to lutes
Is delicate and rare:
But it is not sweet with nimble feet
To dance upon the air!
Yep–you’re not likely to maintain a chi-chi “life is art” stance (note the prissiness of the above stanza) on the gallows.
Umm…it was just a matter of searching for “De Profundis” and “Wilde”.
And you need to add the “Wilde” term, see, because otherwise you discover that the De Profundis is the name of a penitential prayer and psalm text (I’ve seen it labelled Psalm 129 or 130, depending on the source), which begins with the text “Out of the depths I call to you, Lord” (or something similar, depending on the translation). Here’s a site which lists one version of the psalm and prayer. The connection between Wilde’s text and a prayer of penitence spoken from a position of extreme misery and supplication should be fairly obvious.
(This doesn’t mean that one should use this as proof of Wilde’s conversion to Catholicism; as Skopo mentioned above, it’s more likely evidence of Wilde’s interest in the aesthetic aspects of the liturgy without necessarily evincing acceptance of the dogma.)
As for whether that’s the entire text: I don’t have my Complete Oscar Wilde with me to refer to, but most of the other sites I’ve checked have pretty much the sametext.
Umm… Is it only me who found Wilde a bit over-rated? Full of seemingly profound but ultimately meaningless blather? A master of sparkling wit (usually stolen from others) but lacking true heart or soul? Like Sylvia Plath, a writer more famous for what he represented than what he wrote.
Umm… Is it only me who found Wilde a bit over-rated? Full of seemingly profound but ultimately meaningless blather? A master of sparkling wit (usually stolen from others) but lacking true heart or soul? Like Sylvia Plath, a writer more famous for what he represented than what he wrote.
Admittedly, Wilde has a reputation that does not necessarily match either the facts of his life or all of his works (but then again, you could say the same of Shakespeare). Wilde’s plays are particularly full of light, witty, frothy banter that ultimately reveals the characters to be shallow and superficial people; IMHO, that’s intentional. Wilde’s short stories (and, to a certain extent, Dorian Gray) show a more deep and serious side to Wilde, however, and certainly his personal writings indicate that he was a man who, although known primarily for his witticisms, felt deeply and was capable of writing about it.
On another note, the thing about Wilde’s life that always surprises me is his trip through the American west. We think of Wilde as this effeminate homosexual socialite, and yet by all reports he was a great hit with the cowboy crowd. I haven’t look into the details of his speaking tour too closely, but I sometimes wonder what he and they must have talked about.
According to Wilde’s close friends, his writings never truly reflected how brilliant his conversation was in real life.
I’m also fascinated with his tour of the United States. His famous comment “I have nothing to declare but my genius” was supposedly addressed to the customs agents in New York, and many of the best known photographs of Wilde were taken at that time. For some reason, it thrills me that Wilde stopped at Mobile, Alabama, not too far from my hometown in Florida–if that happened today, I could make a daytrip to see him!
This site is compiling a detailed account of the cities he toured.
I also find it interesting that Wilde’s tour was heavily promoted by Richard D’Oyly Carte. Apparently, he decided that American audiences needed to be more familiar with the Aesthetic Movement if they were going to appreciate the Gilbert and Sullivan’s Patience.
An oddity of Wilde that had to have been a key tributary in the making of his mind: he was an incredibly fast reader. He once read a three volume novel in thirty minutes, then answered every question asked him of it correctly. He demonstrated this numerous times, especially when in college, where he and his brother William often won bets on his ability to do this.
Consequently, he was one of the best read men in Europe while still young.
[nitpicks]Wilde’s grandson is actually Merlin “Holland,” Holland being the name that Wilde’s wife adopted after the trials.
It appears that Merlin has a son, Lucian, who you can see here at the unveiling of the new Wilde statue a few years ago. I believe Lucian would be Wilde’s youngest direct descendant–he should be in his young twenties now, so the lineage could very well pass onto a new generation.
I should also point out that I misspelt Bosie’s father’s name in my earlier post. He was the Marquess (or Marquis, although “Marquess” is apparently the official spelling for most British and Scottish peers) of Queensberry–as any student of boxing can tell you.
Ironic that I should misspell his name in the same post where I ridicule him for misspelling “sodomite.”
I can nitpick further and point out that his real name was “John Sholto Douglas” (the 8th Marquess of Queensberry).
D’oh! Right, it’s Holland. I swear I was looking right at the book jacket when I typed “Howard” and the book says “Holland” right on it. Sorry. The name Holland came from wife Constance’s great-great-grandfather, Holland Watson.
It may be only you. I’d like to hear a little more about this ‘sparkling wit (usually stolen from others).’ Could you provide some examples with cites for that? It may take quite a few to back up ‘usually’.
Wilde was frequently (and with justification) accused of plagiarism whilst still alive. There was a well known case where a lecture on Chatterton was basically lifted from existing texts and then passed off as his own. Possibly the most famous example was the accusation from James McNeil Whistler. He seemed to be better known for passing his friends’ conversational gems off as his own, though. No cites, I’m afraid, although I’m sure they’re available - I’m just relying on memories of reading I did years ago. It’s certainly not new information that he was prone to pilfering, though. My use of the word “usually” was thoughtless and I humbly beg pardon.
Having said all that, what makes his work valuable is definitely a style all of his own. I just don’t happen to rate him as highly as other writers; I find his poetry derivative and his prose pompous. The plays are good, of course, but don’t seem to bear repeated reading. I can’t help but wonder whether he would be so well remembered if it wasn’t for the Queensberry trial, since I don’t think much of his work merits such a reputation. Only my opinion, mind, and obviously not one shared by many folks around here!
