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2009-06-08 23:02:04

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Oscar Wilde

^{~Nineteenth Century Poet, Playwright, and Author~}

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Requiescat
^{Tread lightly, she is near

Under the snow,

Speak gently, she can hear

The daisies grow.}

^{All her bright golden hair

Tarnished with rust,

She that was young and fair

Fallen to dust.}

^{Lily-like, white as snow,

She hardly knew

She was a woman, so

Sweetly she grew.}

^{Coffin-board, heavy stone,

Lie on her breast,

I vex my heart alone,

She is at rest.}

^{Peace, Peace she cannot hear

Lyre of sonnet,

All my life's buried here,

Heap earth upon it.}

~

Oscar Wilde was born on October 16th, 1854, to a doctor (his father) and a poet (his mother). His full name is Oscar Fingal O'Flahertie Wills Wilde. He had an elder brother and a younger sister, though the sister died during her teens. Many have never heard of this great man, though his ideas and expressions have become almost commonplace. Perhaps he could have even been considered revolutionary, had any reform taken place for him to see. However, thanks to a little help from his friends, and a monstrously unfair trial by which he was imprisoned, the hideous conditions of English prisons were reformed, though not before he had died.

Some of his most recognized works are "The Importance of Being Earnest", "Lady Windermere's Fan", "The Picture of Dorian Gray", and "The Ballad of Reading Gaol," the last having been written as a result of his confinement to a British prison of the same name. It was his greatest poetic work, arguably.

Though during his lifetime he was not popular as a poet, his true notoriety came from his great gift for talking and wit. He was the center of everyone's fashionable parties (until his name had scandal attached to it) and was sought after by most hosts and hostesses. His sense of humor and wit were remarkable and infectious. He could make anyone smile, except for his enemies. His ego was also quite infamous, as he would accept that no one was better than he in the art of writing and speaking. Even so, his friends did not condemn him for such an opinion of himself because they saw it as the mark of an artist. A few appreciated his genius.

It is a little known fact, I believe because his more famous 'vices' are associated with his name instead, that Oscar Wilde had a wife and two sons. Her name was Constance, and the boys were Vyvyan and Cyril. However, I believe that her name passed into quiet shadow because Oscar was notoriously gay. He professed to his friends quite frequently that he thought the male body more beautiful and appealing than the female, and that the male mind was more attuned for intelligent friendship. At the time, that was probably true, as women had little freedom for higher education and were thought of solely as homemakers and bearers of children. Constance preceded Oscar in death, though they were separated at the time.

Oscar Wilde died in November of 1900, just after his 46th birthday. His illness, cerebral meningitis, intensified by his indulgence on food and wine and absinthe. Since his death, he has become more revered among those that know of him, but more obscure to the masses than ever.

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^{An excerpt from "Oscar Wilde: His Life And Confessions" by Frank Harris}
" 'Oh yes,' I replied, 'as soon as I get settled down, you know. There will be such a lot to do at first, and I am wild to see everything. I wonder how the professors will treat me. I do hope they will not be fools or prigs; what a pity it is that all professors are not poets...' And so I went on merrily, when suddenly the whistle sounded and a moment afterwards the train began to move.
" 'You must go now,' I said to him.
" 'Yes,' he replied , in a queer muffled voice, while standing with his hand on the door of the carriage. Suddenly he turned to me and cried:
" 'Oh, Oscar,' and before I knew what he was doing he had caught my face in his hot hands, and kissed me on the lips. The next moment he had slipped out of the door and was gone...
"I sat there all shaken. Suddenly I became aware of cold, sticky drops trickling down my face-- his tears. They affected me strangely. As I wiped them off I said to myself in amazement:
" 'This is love: this is what he meant-- love.'...
"I was trembling all over. For a long while I sat, unable to think, all shaken with wonder and remorse." -Oscar Wilde

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