De Profundis E-Book

Oscar Wilde

• Herausgeber: Synapse Publishing
• Kategorie: Sachliteratur, Reportagen, Biografien
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Beschreibung

At the start of 1895, Oscar Wilde was the toast of London, widely feted for his most recent stage success, An Ideal Husband. But by May of the same year, Wilde was in Reading prison sentenced to hard labour. 'De Profundis' is an epistolic account of Oscar Wilde's spiritual journey while in prison, and describes his new, shocking conviction that 'the supreme vice is shallowness'.

Leseprobe

DE PROFUNDIS

Oscar Wilde

© 2019 Synapse Publishing

DE PROFUNDIS

. . . Suffering is one very long moment.  We cannot divide it by seasons.  We can only record its moods, and chronicle their return.  With us time itself does not progress.  It revolves.  It seems to circle round one centre of pain.  The paralysing immobility of a life every circumstance of which is regulated after an unchangeable pattern, so that we eat and drink and lie down and pray, or kneel at least for prayer, according to the inflexible laws of an iron formula: this immobile quality, that makes each dreadful day in the very minutest detail like its brother, seems to communicate itself to those external forces the very essence of whose existence is ceaseless change.  Of seed-time or harvest, of the reapers bending over the corn, or the grape gatherers threading through the vines, of the grass in the orchard made white with broken blossoms or strewn with fallen fruit: of these we know nothing and can know nothing.

For us there is only one season, the season of sorrow.  The very sun and moon seem taken from us.  Outside, the day may be blue and gold, but the light that creeps down through the thickly-muffled glass of the small iron-barred window beneath which one sits is grey and niggard.  It is always twilight in one’s cell, as it is always twilight in one’s heart.  And in the sphere of thought, no less than in the sphere of time, motion is no more.  The thing that you personally have long ago forgotten, or can easily forget, is happening to me now, and will happen to me again to-morrow.  Remember this, and you will be able to understand a little of why I am writing, and in this manner writing. . . .

A week later, I am transferred here.  Three more months go over and my mother dies.  No one knew how deeply I loved and honoured her.  Her death was terrible to me; but I, once a lord of language, have no words in which to express my anguish and my shame.  She and my father had bequeathed me a name they had made noble and honoured, not merely in literature, art, archaeology, and science, but in the public history of my own country, in its evolution as a nation.  I had disgraced that name eternally.  I had made it a low by-word among low people.  I had dragged it through the very mire.  I had given it to brutes that they might make it brutal, and to fools that they might turn it into a synonym for folly.  What I suffered then, and still suffer, is not for pen to write or paper to record.  My wife, always kind and gentle to me, rather than that I should hear the news from indifferent lips, travelled, ill as she was, all the way from Genoa to England to break to me herself the tidings of so irreparable, so irremediable, a loss.  Messages of sympathy reached me from all who had still affection for me.  Even people who had not known me personally, hearing that a new sorrow had broken into my life, wrote to ask that some expression of their condolence should be conveyed to me. . . .

Three months go over.  The calendar of my daily conduct and labour that hangs on the outside of my cell door, with my name and sentence written upon it, tells me that it is May. . . .

Prosperity, pleasure and success, may be rough of grain and common in fibre, but sorrow is the most sensitive of all created things.  There is nothing that stirs in the whole world of thought to which sorrow does not vibrate in terrible and exquisite pulsation.  The thin beaten-out leaf of tremulous gold that chronicles the direction of forces the eye cannot see is in comparison coarse.  It is a wound that bleeds when any hand but that of love touches it, and even then must bleed again, though not in pain.

Where there is sorrow there is holy ground.  Some day people will realise what that means.  They will know nothing of life till they do,—and natures like his can realise it.  When I was brought down from my prison to the Court of Bankruptcy, between two policemen,—waited in the long dreary corridor that, before the whole crowd, whom an action so sweet and simple hushed into silence, he might gravely raise his hat to me, as, handcuffed and with bowed head, I passed him by.  Men have gone to heaven for smaller things than that.  It was in this spirit, and with this mode of love, that the saints knelt down to wash the feet of the poor, or stooped to kiss the leper on the cheek.  I have never said one single word to him about what he did.  I do not know to the present moment whether he is aware that I was even conscious of his action.  It is not a thing for which one can render formal thanks in formal words.  I store it in the treasure-house of my heart.  I keep it there as a secret debt that I am glad to think I can never possibly repay.  It is embalmed and kept sweet by the myrrh and cassia of many tears.  When wisdom has been profitless to me, philosophy barren, and the proverbs and phrases of those who have sought to give me consolation as dust and ashes in my mouth, the memory of that little, lovely, silent act of love has unsealed for me all the wells of pity: made the desert blossom like a rose, and brought me out of the bitterness of lonely exile into harmony with the wounded, broken, and great heart of the world.  When people are able to understand, not merely how beautiful ---’s action was, but why it meant so much to me, and always will mean so much, then, perhaps, they will realise how and in what spirit they should approach me. . . .

The poor are wise, more charitable, more kind, more sensitive than we are.  In their eyes prison is a tragedy in a man’s life, a misfortune, a casuality, something that calls for sympathy in others.  They speak of one who is in prison as of one who is ‘in trouble’ simply.  It is the phrase they always use, and the expression has the perfect wisdom of love in it.  With people of our own rank it is different.  With us, prison makes a man a pariah.  I, and such as I am, have hardly any right to air and sun.  Our presence taints the pleasures of others.  We are unwelcome when we reappear.  To revisit the glimpses of the moon is not for us.  Our very children are taken away.  Those lovely links with humanity are broken.  We are doomed to be solitary, while our sons still live.  We are denied the one thing that might heal us and keep us, that might bring balm to the bruised heart, and peace to the soul in pain. . . .

I must say to myself that I ruined myself, and that nobody great or small can be ruined except by his own hand.  I am quite ready to say so.  I am trying to say so, though they may not think it at the present moment.  This pitiless indictment I bring without pity against myself.  Terrible as was what the world did to me, what I did to myself was far more terrible still.

I was a man who stood in symbolic relations to the art and culture of my age.  I had realised this for myself at the very dawn of my manhood, and had forced my age to realise it afterwards.  Few men hold such a position in their own lifetime, and have it so acknowledged.  It is usually discerned, if discerned at all, by the historian, or the critic, long after both the man and his age have passed away.  With me it was different.  I felt it myself, and made others feel it.  Byron was a symbolic figure, but his relations were to the passion of his age and its weariness of passion.  Mine were to something more noble, more permanent, of more vital issue, of larger scope.