Oscar Wilde
Oscar Wilde was born in Dublin in 1854, and his family house can still be seen in Merrion Square, just in front of a beautiful statue erected in his memory.
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Oscar Wilde is considered by many as a tragic hero. You probably are familiar with his fairy tales (e.g. “The Happy Prince”, and “The Selfish Giant”). Maybe you know that he wrote a novel whose main character has become as important as count Dracula or the Frankenstein creature —Dorian Gray. In his life, he was a successful playwright and his comedies (The Importance of Being Earnest, Lady Windemere’s Fan) made him outrageously popular and stablished the fame of his wit. What you may not know about him is that he spent two years in prison, lost everything he owned, and died in Paris at the age of 46. His family –he had two sons– changed their surname to avoid being linked to his name.
How was that possible? How could the darling of fashionable society fall from favour so completely? The answer is simple: Wilde’s friendship with the son of an aristocrat brought about his downfall. Wilde was the object of the Marquess of Queensberry’s anger because of his friendship with Alfred Lord Douglas –known as Bosie–, the Marquess' son. Wilde sued the Marquess for criminal libel. The case took a nasty turn for Wilde when the Marquess' lawyers threatened to call several males prostitutes as witnesses. Wilde was fully aware of the danger and he was forced to withdraw the accusation. However, the Marquess of Queensberry, sued Wilde for the money he had spent on his defence. In order to pay the enormous sum, Wilde's properties were seized and sold in auction. But the Marquess was still not satisfied, so he sent the reports about Wilde's private life to Scotland Yard and the writer was tried and sentenced for sodomy and gross indecency. He spent two years in prison at Reading Gaol, where he was physically and morally destroyed. During the first year, he was not allowed to write. After being released from jail, he left the UK and he spent time in France and Italy. Bankrupt and in very poor health, he settled in Paris, where he died and is buried.
By JHvW (talk) - I (JHvW (talk)) created this work entirely by myself., CC BY-SA 3.0, https://en.wikipedia.org/w/index.php?curid=26490782
Most critics and scholars consider his last writings as his finest. While in Reading Gaol, he wrote a long letter to Bosie which was later published as a book with the title De Profundis. Later, he wrote the poem The Ballad of Reading Gaol, and Although the brilliance and value of these works will ensure Wilde's fame forever, we think that they were not worth the pain and suffering of the circumstances that produced them.
Here are a couple of stanzas from The Ballad of Reading Gaol (you can read the whole poem here):
Oscar Wilde is considered by many as a tragic hero. You probably are familiar with his fairy tales (e.g. “The Happy Prince”, and “The Selfish Giant”). Maybe you know that he wrote a novel whose main character has become as important as count Dracula or the Frankenstein creature —Dorian Gray. In his life, he was a successful playwright and his comedies (The Importance of Being Earnest, Lady Windemere’s Fan) made him outrageously popular and stablished the fame of his wit. What you may not know about him is that he spent two years in prison, lost everything he owned, and died in Paris at the age of 46. His family –he had two sons– changed their surname to avoid being linked to his name.
How was that possible? How could the darling of fashionable society fall from favour so completely? The answer is simple: Wilde’s friendship with the son of an aristocrat brought about his downfall. Wilde was the object of the Marquess of Queensberry’s anger because of his friendship with Alfred Lord Douglas –known as Bosie–, the Marquess' son. Wilde sued the Marquess for criminal libel. The case took a nasty turn for Wilde when the Marquess' lawyers threatened to call several males prostitutes as witnesses. Wilde was fully aware of the danger and he was forced to withdraw the accusation. However, the Marquess of Queensberry, sued Wilde for the money he had spent on his defence. In order to pay the enormous sum, Wilde's properties were seized and sold in auction. But the Marquess was still not satisfied, so he sent the reports about Wilde's private life to Scotland Yard and the writer was tried and sentenced for sodomy and gross indecency. He spent two years in prison at Reading Gaol, where he was physically and morally destroyed. During the first year, he was not allowed to write. After being released from jail, he left the UK and he spent time in France and Italy. Bankrupt and in very poor health, he settled in Paris, where he died and is buried.
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| Wilde's tomb at the Cimetière du Père Lachaise, Paris. |
Most critics and scholars consider his last writings as his finest. While in Reading Gaol, he wrote a long letter to Bosie which was later published as a book with the title De Profundis. Later, he wrote the poem The Ballad of Reading Gaol, and Although the brilliance and value of these works will ensure Wilde's fame forever, we think that they were not worth the pain and suffering of the circumstances that produced them.
Here are a couple of stanzas from The Ballad of Reading Gaol (you can read the whole poem here):
I only knew what hunted thought
Quickened his step, and why
He looked upon the garish day
With such a wistful eye;
The man had killed the thing he loved
And so he had to die.
Yet each man kills the thing he loves
By each let this be heard,
Some do it with a bitter look,
Some with a flattering word,
The coward does it with a kiss,
The brave man with a sword!
Some kill their love when they are young,
And some when they are old;
Some strangle with the hands of Lust,
Some with the hands of Gold:
The kindest use a knife, because
The dead so soon grow cold.
Some love too little, some too long,
Some sell, and others buy;
Some do the deed with many tears,
And some without a sigh:
For each man kills the thing he loves,
Yet each man does not die.
Quickened his step, and why
He looked upon the garish day
With such a wistful eye;
The man had killed the thing he loved
And so he had to die.
Yet each man kills the thing he loves
By each let this be heard,
Some do it with a bitter look,
Some with a flattering word,
The coward does it with a kiss,
The brave man with a sword!
Some kill their love when they are young,
And some when they are old;
Some strangle with the hands of Lust,
Some with the hands of Gold:
The kindest use a knife, because
The dead so soon grow cold.
Some love too little, some too long,
Some sell, and others buy;
Some do the deed with many tears,
And some without a sigh:
For each man kills the thing he loves,
Yet each man does not die.
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