Oscar Wilde is definitely one of my favourite authors that I read most of his works. If I can invite anyone(dead or alive) to my dinner, Oscar Wilde would be always in my list. Reading his quotes, I think I would be able to enjoy his wit for a long dinner.
De Profundis or “from the depths” is a long letter written by Oscar Wild to Lord Alfred Douglas while he was imprisoned in Reading Goal.
The letter is Wild’s attempt to come to terms with his past, present dire circumstances and the future that he will have to face once released. As the name states, the letter is account from the depth – from his soul with all honesty. Although he holds that he is unjustly convicted, he nevertheless admits that he has committed grave errors in the past. He is repentant on the superficial life he has had led. And he seeks forgiveness and bestow forgiveness of those who he believed wronged him.
The letter is also a way of releasing his anger, bitterness and despair while he struggled to find a meaning and purpose for the continuation of his life. He himself admits that he wanted to end it in utter despair. But yet he struggles, despite his losses (he was made bankrupt and he was barred from any contacts with his sons), to come to terms with the nature of life which he say is “full of sorrow” which can be endured only though “love”.
It was truly sad to read the emotional and mental agonies that such a fine artist had to go through. When he said that he had brought disgrace to the name that his loving parents had bestowed on him, my heart broke. It is a huge burden one carries with oneself.
The letter is also full of his philosophical views and beautiful writing. Letter or not, it is by Oscar Wild and one should not expect less.
Here are some sentences that I thought insightful and sassy as usual:
‘Suffering is permanent, obscure, and dark And has the nature of infinity.’
Those who have much are often greedy; those who have little always share.
The only people I would care to be with now are artists and people who have suffered: those who know what beauty is, and those who know what sorrow is: nobody else interests me.
the artist is always looking for is the mode of existence in which soul and body are one and indivisible: in which the outward is expressive of the inward: in which form reveals.
Behind joy and laughter there may be a temperament, coarse, hard and callous. But behind sorrow there is always sorrow.
Now it seems to me that love of some kind is the only possible explanation of the extraordinary amount of suffering that there is in the world. I cannot conceive of any other explanation. I am convinced that there is no other, and that if the world has indeed, as I have said, been built of sorrow, it has been built by the hands of love, because in no other way could the soul of man, for whom the world was made, reach the full stature of its perfection. Pleasure for the beautiful body, but pain for the beautiful soul.