Artilleries: Belated Birthdays: Oscar Wilde

We’ll pretend Oscar Wilde’s birthday wasn’t four days ago because I am in need of a solid excuse to wax poetic about his existence.

If I attempted to pinpoint the moment I fell madly in love with Oscar Wilde it would be in vain. It might have been sometime around my reading of excerpts from his plays ages ago, during which I was cackling madly to myself, and also likely subject to the worried gazes of onlookers. A dry mix of Victorian humor and social commentary, shaken not stirred, is side-splitting, all right? Don’t judge. And Wilde is formidable at it, if not the very best. Peppered heavily with sneering commentary of Victorian culture, Wilde’s work, whether farce or earnestly (pun somewhat intended) pensive, does not lack relevance. From the Harry Wottons to the Cecily Cardews all, often regrettably, exist today.

And yet, Wilde isn’t just some extraordinarily glib well-worded satirist. Quite far, in fact. The dimension to his work is astounding (and what makes his writing, most notably Picture of Dorian Gray, so effective). Especially poignant are Wilde’s writings following his exile, which actually turn rather depressing. Nevertheless, whether Wilde is pictured reclining on a chaise lounge and noting caustically the flaws of his society, or scrawling away solemnly to Robbie Ross, either image is that of both a quintessentially Victorian aestheticism, and universal literary magnitude.

Simply put, there’s quite a reason as to why my Complete Works of Oscar Wilde has essentially been beatified on my bookshelf.

The complete text of Picture of Dorian Gray, plus a myriad of other texts can be found here. A wonderful archive of manuscripts and letters by Wilde (it's quite amusing to see the process of his work- just compare the draft and final versions of The Artist from Poems in Prose) is offered over here. Another online manuscript archive, with a bit of analysis included here. Enjoy.

Here are a few favorite Wilde-isms:

"When good Americans die they go to Paris." (A Woman of no Importance)

"The difference between literature and journalism is that journalism is unreadable and literature is not read." (The Critic as Artist)

"The world is a stage, but the play is badly cast." (Lord Arthur Savile's Crime)

"The public is wonderfully tolerant. It forgives everything except genius." (The Critic as Artist)

"Most people are other people. Their thoughts are someone else's opinions, their lives a mimicry, their passions a quotation." (De Profundis)

"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!"