God knows; I won't be an Oxford don anyhow. I'll be a poet, a writer, a dramatist. Somehow or other I'll be famous, and if not famous, I'll be notorious. Or perhaps I'll lead the life of pleasure for a time and then—who knows?—rest and do nothing. What does Plato say is the highest end that man can attain here below? To sit down and contemplate the good. Perhaps that will be the end of me too.
A blog entirely dedicated to Oscar Wilde's genius.
I know I haven’t updated this blog (or any blog) in weeks, but please bear with me on this one, I’m actually writing my thesis (that’s a dissertation for you british lovelies) and I really have to focus on it.
So be patient, this blog will be back in all its Wildean glory very soon (Hopefully in a week).
Reblogged from agirlandherbibliophilia
‘Everyone called me the Happy Prince, and happy indeed I was. So I lived and so I died. And now that I’m dead, they have set me up here so high that I can see all the ugliness and unhappiness of my city, and though my heart is made of lead, yet I cannot help crying’.
- From The Happy Prince, a tale by Oscar Wilde.
Reblogged from aliya69viktoria
As oftentimes the too resplendent sun
Hurries the pallid and reluctant moon
Back to her sombre cave, ere she hath won
A single ballad from the nightingale,
So doth thy Beauty make my lips to fail,
And all my sweetest singing out of tune.
And as at dawn across the level mead
On wings impetuous some wind will come,
And with its too harsh kisses break the reed
Which was its only instrument of song,
So my too stormy passions work me wrong,
And for excess of Love my Love is dumb.
But surely unto Thee mine eyes did show
Why I am silent, and my lute unstrung;
Else it were better we should part, and go,
Thou to some lips of sweeter melody,
And I to nurse the barren memory
Of unkissed kisses, and songs never sung.
by O. Wilde
Thanks to everyone for their answers about the shirt. I’m sorry I didn’t thank you before but… midterms.
Reblogged from deadbeatpoet-deactivated2013051