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.
Oscar Wilde. “A Woman of No Importance”
Reblogged from lunchinthelibrary
Fun Fact: Apparently Oscar Wilde was 6’3”, which in the 1870s would have been the equivalent of like 6’7”-6’9” tall. He was so ridiculously huge and awkward that one of his friends described him as looking like a “great white caterpillar.” That is all.
Reblogged from oscarwetnwilde
No letters passed between my brother and myself on my father’s death. It was as though the revelation of his continued existence was to remain a secret even between ourselves. But again Cyril was not so lucky as I was, for hes aw the announcement in the newspapers and heard it discussed by the older boys over the breakfast-table at Radley. At this time Robert Ross wrote a letter to us, care of the family solicitors. The letter was sent to my brother to answer, and I never saw it myself; indeed I never heard about it until after my brother’s death, when Ross showed me Cyril’s reply and gave me a copy of it. It must be remembered that my brother was only fifteen and a half at the time, and had over five years of bitterness behind him. His letter ran as follows:
Dear Mr. Ross,
Thank you so much for the kind letter you sent me. It was very kind of you to give the flowers for us. I am glad you say that he loved us. I hope that his death was truly penitent; I think he must have been if he joined the Catholic Church and my reverence for the Roman Church is heightened more than ever. It is hard for a young mind like mine to realise why all the sorrow should have come on us, especially so young. And I am here among many happy faces among boys who have never really known an hour of sorrow and I have to keep my sorrow to myself and have no one here to sympathise with me although I am sure my many friends would soon do so if they knew. But when I am solemn and do not join so much in their jokes they stir me up and chide me for my gloominess.
It is of course a long time since I saw father but all I do remember was when we lived happily together in London and how he would come and build brick houses for us in the nursery.
I only hope that it will be a lesson for me and prevent me from falling into the snares and pitfalls of this world. On Saturday I went up to London to see Mrs. Napier and came back on Sunday afternoon.
I first read of his death in a paper at breakfast and luckily one cannot realise so great a loss in cold print or I don’t know what I should have done….And yet the ordinary person reads without emotion and quite dispassionately.
I cannot put my thoughts into words, so I will end.
Yours very affectionately,
Reblogged from amaracchia
Asked by Anonymous
I was totes srs bsns ‘bout it guise!
Just kidding, but yes, I was being serious about it. I like to put the transcritption of each letter in the photo’s description, but sometimes I just can’t understand what the man wrote, that’s why I ask you, fellow Wildeans, for help.
Reblogged from oscarwetnwilde
One of Oscar Wilde’s letters from his college years.
[Main text] I am very glad to hear from Mark that you have come back safe out of the clutches of those barbarous Irish - I was afraid that the potatoe chips that we live on over there could have been too much for you. Some beastly old Evangelical Parish(?) about here has, I believe, been praying for snow - and his prayers have been quite successful - as the [page cuts off]