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!"

(The Ballad of Reading Gaol) 

Lippincott's original 1890 version of The Picture
of Dorian Gray

A bit of Wilde comic relief from Kate Beaton.

How literature has become a discontented youth's bitch

In this universal rebellious teenage phase that the internet and general sub-25 population as a collective unit seems to be going through, having deep, angst-ridden thoughts is hip, man. It's edgy to be misanthropic. Life is a lost cause. Throw on your wayfarers and scowl at humanity behind them, bro.

You know what's also cool? Having literary classics to back up your angsty thoughts. That makes your misanthropy legitimate. And who better to legitimize your emotions that the holy trifecta of Plath, Salinger, and Fitzgerald?

The internet's peculiar love affair with these three authors rests simply on the fact that, with some mild misinterpretation and misapplication, their works and ideas can serve as a seemingly solid foundation for disillusioned youth everywhere. From "man society sucks Plath gets me she puts all of my profound thoughts into words I just want to stick my head in an oven" to "Holden Caulfield is my kindred spirit Salinger's writing is so accurate" to "Gatsby had it right we never get what we want society is just one huge facade" to the works of many other authors, literature has been bastardized left and right to help a blasé and discontented teen spirit express itself.

Just google blog posts about Sylvia Plath quotes, I dare you. Sylvia Plath, along with the aforementioned authors, has become more of a brand than an author. Like Mac or Starbucks, Plath has become a name, one which, when plastered on anything really, lends it some sort of legitimacy as a disgruntled societal statement.

Take, for instance this quotation:

"We are not angels. Nor are we the devils you have made us out to be."

If I claimed it to be from Sylvia Plath, the internet would attack it like a troupe of starving hyenas, dismember it, and use it to express deep thoughts and the frustration of today's youth. Maybe something along the lines of normal people in society think we folk who choose to express our feelings and grievances through the arts are useless and abnormal. If I revealed that this quotation is, in fact, from Slobodan Milosevic, perpetrator of the Bosnian Genocide, and regards international views on the conflict, all profound interpretations would immediately disappear. It's not Sylvia Plath anymore, so it doesn't express our societal views, man.

It's a shame, it really is, that great works and great ideas by great authors devolve into statement pieces like this.