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    De Profundis

    by Oscar Wilde
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    . . . 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 in 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.

    The gods had given me almost everything. But I let myself be lured
    into long spells of senseless and sensual ease. I amused myself
    with being a FLANEUR, a dandy, a man of fashion. I surrounded
    myself with the smaller natures and the meaner minds. I became the
    spendthrift of my own genius, and to waste an eternal youth gave me
    a curious joy. Tired of being on the heights, I deliberately went
    to the depths in the search for new sensation. What the paradox
    was to me in the sphere of thought, perversity became to me in the
    sphere of passion. Desire, at the end, was a malady, or a madness,
    or both. I grew careless of the lives of others. I took pleasure
    where it pleased me, and passed on. I forgot that every little
    action of the common day makes or unmakes character, and that
    therefore what one has done in the secret chamber one has some day
    to cry aloud on the housetop. I ceased to be lord over myself. I
    was no longer the captain of my soul, and did not know it. I
    allowed pleasure to dominate me. I ended in horrible disgrace.
    There is only one thing for me now, absolute humility.

    I have lain in prison for nearly two years. Out of my nature has
    come wild despair; an abandonment to grief that was piteous even to
    look at; terrible and impotent rage; bitterness and scorn; anguish
    that wept aloud; misery that could find no voice; sorrow that was
    dumb. I have passed through every possible mood of suffering.
    Better than Wordsworth himself I know what Wordsworth meant when he
    said -

    'Suffering is permanent, obscure, and dark
    And has the nature of infinity.'

    But while there were times when I rejoiced in the idea that my
    sufferings were to be endless, I could not bear them to be without
    meaning. Now I find hidden somewhere away in my nature something
    that tells me that nothing in the whole world is meaningless, and
    suffering least of all. That something hidden away in my nature,
    like a treasure in a field, is Humility.

    It is the last thing left in me, and the best: the ultimate
    discovery at which I have arrived, the starting-point for a fresh
    development. It has come to me right out of myself, so I know that
    it has come at the proper time. It could not have come before, nor
    later. Had any one told me of it, I would have rejected it. Had
    it been brought to me, I would have refused it. As I found it, I
    want to keep it. I must do so. It is the one thing that has in it
    the elements of life, of a new life, VITA NUOVA for me. Of all
    things it is the strangest. One cannot acquire it, except by
    surrendering everything that one has. It is only when one has lost
    all things, that one knows that one possesses it.

    Now I have realised that it is in me, I see quite clearly what I
    ought to do; in fact, must do. And when I use such a phrase as
    that, I need not say that I am not alluding to any external
    sanction or command. I admit none. I am far more of an
    individualist than I ever was. Nothing seems to me of the smallest
    value except what one gets out of oneself. My nature is seeking a
    fresh mode of self-realisation. That is all I am concerned with.
    And the first thing that I have got to do is to free myself from
    any possible bitterness of feeling against the world.

    I am completely penniless, and absolutely homeless. Yet there are
    worse things in the world than that. I am quite candid when I say
    that rather than go out from this prison with bitterness in my
    heart against the world, I would gladly and readily beg my bread
    from door to door. If I got nothing from the house of the rich I
    would get something at the house of the poor. Those who have much
    are often greedy; those who have little always share. I would not
    a bit mind sleeping in the cool grass in summer, and when winter
    came on sheltering myself by the warm close-thatched rick, or under
    the penthouse of a great barn, provided I had love in my heart.
    The external things of life seem to me now of no importance at all.
    You can see to what intensity of individualism I have arrived - or
    am arriving rather, for the journey is long, and 'where I walk
    there are thorns.'

    Of course I know that to ask alms on the highway is not to be my
    lot, and that if ever I lie in the cool grass at night-time it will
    be to write sonnets to the moon. When I go out of prison, R- will
    be waiting for me on the other side of the big iron-studded gate,
    and he is the symbol, not merely of his own affection, but of the
    affection of many others besides. I believe I am to have enough to
    live on for about eighteen months at any rate, so that if I may not
    write beautiful books, I may at least read beautiful books; and
    what joy can be greater? After that, I hope to be able to recreate
    my creative faculty.

    But were things different: had I not a friend left in the world;
    were there not a single house open to me in pity; had I to accept
    the wallet and ragged cloak of sheer penury: as long as I am free
    from all resentment, hardness and scorn, I would be able to face
    the life with much more calm and confidence than I would were my
    body in purple and fine linen, and the soul within me sick with
    hate.

    And I really shall have no difficulty. When you really want love
    you will find it waiting for you.

    I need not say that my task does not end there. It would be
    comparatively easy if it did. There is much more before me. I
    have hills far steeper to climb, valleys much darker to pass
    through. And I have to get it all out of myself. Neither
    religion, morality, nor reason can help me at all.

    Morality does not help me. I am a born antinomian. I am one of
    those who are made for exceptions, not for laws. But while I see
    that there is nothing wrong in what one does, I see that there is
    something wrong in what one becomes. It is well to have learned
    that.

    Religion does not help me. The faith that others give to what is
    unseen, I give to what one can touch, and look at. My gods dwell
    in temples made with hands; and within the circle of actual
    experience is my creed made perfect and complete: too complete, it
    may be, for like many or all of those who have placed their heaven
    in this earth, I have found in it not merely the beauty of heaven,
    but the horror of hell also. When I think about religion at all, I
    feel as if I would like to found an order for those who CANNOT
    believe: the Confraternity of the Faithless, one might call it,
    where on an altar, on which no taper burned, a priest, in whose
    heart peace had no dwelling, might celebrate with unblessed bread
    and a chalice empty of wine. Every thing to be true must become a
    religion. And agnosticism should have its ritual no less than
    faith. It has sown its martyrs, it should reap its saints, and
    praise God daily for having hidden Himself from man. But whether
    it be faith or agnosticism, it must be nothing external to me. Its
    symbols must be of my own creating. Only that is spiritual which
    makes its own form. If I may not find its secret within myself, I
    shall never find it: if I have not got it already, it will never
    come to me.

    Reason does not help me. It tells me that the laws under which I
    am convicted are wrong and unjust laws, and the system under which
    I have suffered a wrong and unjust system. But, somehow, I have
    got to make both of these things just and right to me. And exactly
    as in Art one is only concerned with what a particular thing is at
    a particular moment to oneself, so it is also in the ethical
    evolution of one's character. I have got to make everything that
    has happened to me good for me. The plank bed, the loathsome food,
    the hard ropes shredded into oakum till one's finger-tips grow dull
    with pain, the menial offices with which each day begins and
    finishes, the harsh orders that routine seems to necessitate, the
    dreadful dress that makes sorrow grotesque to look at, the silence,
    the solitude, the shame - each and all of these things I have to
    transform into a spiritual experience. There is not a single
    degradation of the body which I must not try and make into a
    spiritualising of the soul.

    I want to get to the point when I shall be able to say quite
    simply, and without affectation that the two great turning-points
    in my life were when my father sent me to Oxford, and when society
    sent me to prison. I will not say that prison is the best thing
    that could have happened to me: for that phrase would savour of
    too great bitterness towards myself. I would sooner say, or hear
    it said of me, that I was so typical a child of my age, that in my
    perversity, and for that perversity's sake, I turned the good
    things of my life to evil, and the evil things of my life to good.

    What is said, however, by myself or by others, matters little. The
    important thing, the thing that lies before me, the thing that I
    have to do, if the brief remainder of my days is not to be maimed,
    marred, and incomplete, is to absorb into my nature all that has
    been done to me, to make it part of me, to accept it without
    complaint, fear, or reluctance. The supreme vice is shallowness.
    Whatever is realised is right.

    When first I was put into prison some people advised me to try and
    forget who I was. It was ruinous advice. It is only by realising
    what I am that I have found comfort of any kind. Now I am advised
    by others to try on my release to forget that I have ever been in a
    prison at all. I know that would be equally fatal. It would mean
    that I would always be haunted by an intolerable sense of disgrace,
    and that those things that are meant for me as much as for anybody
    else - the beauty of the sun and moon, the pageant of the seasons,
    the music of daybreak and the silence of great nights, the rain
    falling through the leaves, or the dew creeping over the grass and
    making it silver - would all be tainted for me, and lose their
    healing power, and their power of communicating joy. To regret
    one's own experiences is to arrest one's own development. To deny
    one's own experiences is to put a lie into the lips of one's own
    life. It is no less than a denial of the soul.

    For just as the body absorbs things of all kinds, things common and
    unclean no less than those that the priest or a vision has
    cleansed, and converts them into swiftness or strength, into the
    play of beautiful muscles and the moulding of fair flesh, into the
    curves and colours of the hair, the lips, the eye; so the soul in
    its turn has its nutritive functions also, and can transform into
    noble moods of thought and passions of high import what in itself
    is base, cruel and degrading; nay, more, may find in these its most
    august modes of assertion, and can often reveal itself most
    perfectly through what was intended to desecrate or destroy.

    The fact of my having been the common prisoner of a common gaol I
    must frankly accept, and, curious as it may seem, one of the things
    I shall have to teach myself is not to be ashamed of it. I must
    accept it as a punishment, and if one is ashamed of having been
    punished, one might just as well never have been punished at all.
    Of course there are many things of which I was convicted that I had
    not done, but then there are many things of which I was convicted
    that I had done, and a still greater number of things in my life
    for which I was never indicted at all. And as the gods are
    strange, and punish us for what is good and humane in us as much as
    for what is evil and perverse, I must accept the fact that one is
    punished for the good as well as for the evil that one does. I
    have no doubt that it is quite right one should be. It helps one,
    or should help one, to realise both, and not to be too conceited
    about either. And if I then am not ashamed of my punishment, as I
    hope not to be, I shall be able to think, and walk, and live with
    freedom.

    Many men on their release carry their prison about with them into
    the air, and hide it as a secret disgrace in their hearts, and at
    length, like poor poisoned things, creep into some hole and die.
    It is wretched that they should have to do so, and it is wrong,
    terribly wrong, of society that it should force them to do so.
    Society takes upon itself the right to inflict appalling punishment
    on the individual, but it also has the supreme vice of shallowness,
    and fails to realise what it has done. When the man's punishment
    is over, it leaves him to himself; that is to say, it abandons him
    at the very moment when its highest duty towards him begins. It is
    really ashamed of its own actions, and shuns those whom it has
    punished, as people shun a creditor whose debt they cannot pay, or
    one on whom they have inflicted an irreparable, an irremediable
    wrong. I can claim on my side that if I realise what I have
    suffered, society should realise what it has inflicted on me; and
    that there should be no bitterness or hate on either side.

    Of course I know that from one point of view things will be made
    different for me than for others; must indeed, by the very nature
    of the case, be made so. The poor thieves and outcasts who are
    imprisoned here with me are in many respects more fortunate than I
    am. The little way in grey city or green field that saw their sin
    is small; to find those who know nothing of what they have done
    they need go no further than a bird might fly between the twilight
    and the dawn; but for me the world is shrivelled to a handsbreadth,
    and everywhere I turn my name is written on the rocks in lead. For
    I have come, not from obscurity into the momentary notoriety of
    crime, but from a sort of eternity of fame to a sort of eternity of
    infamy, and sometimes seem to myself to have shown, if indeed it
    required showing, that between the famous and the infamous there is
    but one step, if as much as one.

    Still, in the very fact that people will recognise me wherever I
    go, and know all about my life, as far as its follies go, I can
    discern something good for me. It will force on me the necessity
    of again asserting myself as an artist, and as soon as I possibly
    can. If I can produce only one beautiful work of art I shall be
    able to rob malice of its venom, and cowardice of its sneer, and to
    pluck out the tongue of scorn by the roots.

    And if life be, as it surely is, a problem to me, I am no less a
    problem to life. People must adopt some attitude towards me, and
    so pass judgment, both on themselves and me. I need not say I am
    not talking of particular individuals. 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. Nor am I making any demands on life. In
    all that I have said I am simply concerned with my own mental
    attitude towards life as a whole; and I feel that not to be ashamed
    of having been punished is one of the first points I must attain
    to, for the sake of my own perfection, and because I am so
    imperfect.

    Then I must learn how to be happy. Once I knew it, or thought I
    knew it, by instinct. It was always springtime once in my heart.
    My temperament was akin to joy. I filled my life to the very brim
    with pleasure, as one might fill a cup to the very brim with wine.
    Now I am approaching life from a completely new standpoint, and
    even to conceive happiness is often extremely difficult for me. I
    remember during my first term at Oxford reading in Pater's
    RENAISSANCE - that book which has had such strange influence over
    my life - how Dante places low in the Inferno those who wilfully
    live in sadness; and going to the college library and turning to
    the passage in the DIVINE COMEDY where beneath the dreary marsh lie
    those who were 'sullen in the sweet air,' saying for ever and ever
    through their sighs -

    'Tristi fummo
    Nell aer dolce che dal sol s'allegra.'

    I knew the church condemned ACCIDIA, but the whole idea seemed to
    me quite fantastic, just the sort of sin, I fancied, a priest who
    knew nothing about real life would invent. Nor could I understand
    how Dante, who says that 'sorrow remarries us to God,' could have
    been so harsh to those who were enamoured of melancholy, if any
    such there really were. I had no idea that some day this would
    become to me one of the greatest temptations of my life.

    While I was in Wandsworth prison I longed to die. It was my one
    desire. When after two months in the infirmary I was transferred
    here, and found myself growing gradually better in physical health,
    I was filled with rage. I determined to commit suicide on the very
    day on which I left prison. After a time that evil mood passed
    away, and I made up my mind to live, but to wear gloom as a king
    wears purple: never to smile again: to turn whatever house I
    entered into a house of mourning: to make my friends walk slowly
    in sadness with me: to teach them that melancholy is the true
    secret of life: to maim them with an alien sorrow: to mar them
    with my own pain. Now I feel quite differently. I see it would be
    both ungrateful and unkind of me to pull so long a face that when
    my friends came to see me they would have to make their faces still
    longer in order to show their sympathy; or, if I desired to
    entertain them, to invite them to sit down silently to bitter herbs
    and funeral baked meats. I must learn how to be cheerful and
    happy.

    The last two occasions on which I was allowed to see my friends
    here, I tried to be as cheerful as possible, and to show my
    cheerfulness, in order to make them some slight return for their
    trouble in coming all the way from town to see me. It is only a
    slight return, I know, but it is the one, I feel certain, that
    pleases them most. I saw R- for an hour on Saturday week, and I
    tried to give the fullest possible expression of the delight I
    really felt at our meeting. And that, in the views and ideas I am
    here shaping for myself, I am quite right is shown to me by the
    fact that now for the first time since my imprisonment I have a
    real desire for life.

    There is before me so much to do, that I would regard it as a
    terrible tragedy if I died before I was allowed to complete at any
    rate a little of it. I see new developments in art and life, each
    one of which is a fresh mode of perfection. I long to live so that
    I can explore what is no less than a new world to me. Do you want
    to know what this new world is? I think you can guess what it is.
    It is the world in which I have been living. Sorrow, then, and all
    that it teaches one, is my new world.

    I used to live entirely for pleasure. I shunned suffering and
    sorrow of every kind. I hated both. I resolved to ignore them as
    far as possible: to treat them, that is to say, as modes of
    imperfection. They were not part of my scheme of life. They had
    no place in my philosophy. My mother, who knew life as a whole,
    used often to quote to me Goethe's lines - written by Carlyle in a
    book he had given her years ago, and translated by him, I fancy,
    also:-

    'Who never ate his bread in sorrow,
    Who never spent the midnight hours
    Weeping and waiting for the morrow, -
    He knows you not, ye heavenly powers.'

    They were the lines which that noble Queen of Prussia, whom
    Napoleon treated with such coarse brutality, used to quote in her
    humiliation and exile; they were the lines my mother often quoted
    in the troubles of her later life. I absolutely declined to accept
    or admit the enormous truth hidden in them. I could not understand
    it. I remember quite well how I used to tell her that I did not
    want to eat my bread in sorrow, or to pass any night weeping and
    watching for a more bitter dawn.

    I had no idea that it was one of the special things that the Fates
    had in store for me: that for a whole year of my life, indeed, I
    was to do little else. But so has my portion been meted out to me;
    and during the last few months I have, after terrible difficulties
    and struggles, been able to comprehend some of the lessons hidden
    in the heart of pain. Clergymen and people who use phrases without
    wisdom sometimes talk of suffering as a mystery. It is really a
    revelation. One discerns things one never discerned before. One
    approaches the whole of history from a different standpoint. What
    one had felt dimly, through instinct, about art, is intellectually
    and emotionally realised with perfect clearness of vision and
    absolute intensity of apprehension.

    I now see that sorrow, being the supreme emotion of which man is
    capable, is at once the type and test of all great art. What 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. Of such modes of
    existence there are not a few: youth and the arts preoccupied with
    youth may serve as a model for us at one moment: at another we may
    like to think that, in its subtlety and sensitiveness of
    impression, its suggestion of a spirit dwelling in external things
    and making its raiment of earth and air, of mist and city alike,
    and in its morbid sympathy of its moods, and tones, and colours,
    modern landscape art is realising for us pictorially what was
    realised in such plastic perfection by the Greeks. Music, in which
    all subject is absorbed in expression and cannot be separated from
    it, is a complex example, and a flower or a child a simple example,
    of what I mean; but sorrow is the ultimate type both in life and
    art.

    Behind joy and laughter there may be a temperament, coarse, hard
    and callous. But behind sorrow there is always sorrow. Pain,
    unlike pleasure, wears no mask. Truth in art is not any
    correspondence between the essential idea and the accidental
    existence; it is not the resemblance of shape to shadow, or of the
    form mirrored in the crystal to the form itself; it is no echo
    coming from a hollow hill, any more than it is a silver well of
    water in the valley that shows the moon to the moon and Narcissus
    to Narcissus. Truth in art is the unity of a thing with itself:
    the outward rendered expressive of the inward: the soul made
    incarnate: the body instinct with spirit. For this reason there
    is no truth comparable to sorrow. There are times when sorrow
    seems to me to be the only truth. Other things may be illusions of
    the eye or the appetite, made to blind the one and cloy the other,
    but out of sorrow have the worlds been built, and at the birth of a
    child or a star there is pain.

    More than this, there is about sorrow an intense, an extraordinary
    reality. I have said of myself that I was one who stood in
    symbolic relations to the art and culture of my age. There is not
    a single wretched man in this wretched place along with me who does
    not stand in symbolic relation to the very secret of life. For the
    secret of life is suffering. It is what is hidden behind
    everything. When we begin to live, what is sweet is so sweet to
    us, and what is bitter so bitter, that we inevitably direct all our
    desires towards pleasures, and seek not merely for a 'month or
    twain to feed on honeycomb,' but for all our years to taste no
    other food, ignorant all the while that we may really be starving
    the soul.

    I remember talking once on this subject to one of the most
    beautiful personalities I have ever known: a woman, whose sympathy
    and noble kindness to me, both before and since the tragedy of my
    imprisonment, have been beyond power and description; one who has
    really assisted me, though she does not know it, to bear the burden
    of my troubles more than any one else in the whole world has, and
    all through the mere fact of her existence, through her being what
    she is - partly an ideal and partly an influence: a suggestion of
    what one might become as well as a real help towards becoming it; a
    soul that renders the common air sweet, and makes what is spiritual
    seem as simple and natural as sunlight or the sea: one for whom
    beauty and sorrow walk hand in hand, and have the same message. On
    the occasion of which I am thinking I recall distinctly how I said
    to her that there was enough suffering in one narrow London lane to
    show that God did not love man, and that wherever there was any
    sorrow, though but that of a child, in some little garden weeping
    over a fault that it had or had not committed, the whole face of
    creation was completely marred. I was entirely wrong. She told me
    so, but I could not believe her. I was not in the sphere in which
    such belief was to be attained to. 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.

    When I say that I am convinced of these things I speak with too
    much pride. Far off, like a perfect pearl, one can see the city of
    God. It is so wonderful that it seems as if a child could reach it
    in a summer's day. And so a child could. But with me and such as
    me it is different. One can realise a thing in a single moment,
    but one loses it in the long hours that follow with leaden feet.
    It is so difficult to keep 'heights that the soul is competent to
    gain.' We think in eternity, but we move slowly through time; and
    how slowly time goes with us who lie in prison I need not tell
    again, nor of the weariness and despair that creep back into one's
    cell, and into the cell of one's heart, with such strange
    insistence that one has, as it were, to garnish and sweep one's
    house for their coming, as for an unwelcome guest, or a bitter
    master, or a slave whose slave it is one's chance or choice to be.

    And, though at present my friends may find it a hard thing to
    believe, it is true none the less, that for them living in freedom
    and idleness and comfort it is more easy to learn the lessons of
    humility than it is for me, who begin the day by going down on my
    knees and washing the floor of my cell. For prison life with its
    endless privations and restrictions makes one rebellious. The most
    terrible thing about it is not that it breaks one's heart - hearts
    are made to be broken - but that it turns one's heart to stone.
    One sometimes feels that it is only with a front of brass and a lip
    of scorn that one can get through the day at all. And he who is in
    a state of rebellion cannot receive grace, to use the phrase of
    which the Church is so fond - so rightly fond, I dare say - for in
    life as in art the mood of rebellion closes up the channels of the
    soul, and shuts out the airs of heaven. Yet I must learn these
    lessons here, if I am to learn them anywhere, and must be filled
    with joy if my feet are on the right road and my face set towards
    'the gate which is called beautiful,' though I may fall many times
    in the mire and often in the mist go astray.

    This New Life, as through my love of Dante I like sometimes to call
    it, is of course no new life at all, but simply the continuance, by
    means of development, and evolution, of my former life. I remember
    when I was at Oxford saying to one of my friends as we were
    strolling round Magdalen's narrow bird-haunted walks one morning in
    the year before I took my degree, that I wanted to eat of the fruit
    of all the trees in the garden of the world, and that I was going
    out into the world with that passion in my soul. And so, indeed, I
    went out, and so I lived. My only mistake was that I confined
    myself so exclusively to the trees of what seemed to me the sun-lit
    side of the garden, and shunned the other side for its shadow and
    its gloom. Failure, disgrace, poverty, sorrow, despair, suffering,
    tears even, the broken words that come from lips in pain, remorse
    that makes one walk on thorns, conscience that condemns, self-
    abasement that punishes, the misery that puts ashes on its head,
    the anguish that chooses sack-cloth for its raiment and into its
    own drink puts gall:- all these were things of which I was afraid.
    And as I had determined to know nothing of them, I was forced to
    taste each of them in turn, to feed on them, to have for a season,
    indeed, no other food at all.

    I don't regret for a single moment having lived for pleasure. I
    did it to the full, as one should do everything that one does.
    There was no pleasure I did not experience. I threw the pearl of
    my soul into a cup of wine. I went down the primrose path to the
    sound of flutes. I lived on honeycomb. But to have continued the
    same life would have been wrong because it would have been
    limiting. I had to pass on. The other half of the garden had its
    secrets for me also. Of course all this is foreshadowed and
    prefigured in my books. Some of it is in THE HAPPY PRINCE, some of
    it in THE YOUNG KING, notably in the passage where the bishop says
    to the kneeling boy, 'Is not He who made misery wiser than thou
    art'? a phrase which when I wrote it seemed to me little more than
    a phrase; a great deal of it is hidden away in the note of doom
    that like a purple thread runs through the texture of DORIAN GRAY;
    in THE CRITIC AS ARTIST it is set forth in many colours; in THE
    SOUL OF MAN it is written down, and in letters too easy to read; it
    is one of the refrains whose recurring MOTIFS make SALOME so like a
    piece of music and bind it together as a ballad; in the prose poem
    of the man who from the bronze of the image of the 'Pleasure that
    liveth for a moment' has to make the image of the 'Sorrow that
    abideth for ever' it is incarnate. It could not have been
    otherwise. At every single moment of one's life one is what one is
    going to be no less than what one has been. Art is a symbol,
    because man is a symbol.

    It is, if I can fully attain to it, the ultimate realisation of the
    artistic life. For the artistic life is simply self-development.
    Humility in the artist is his frank acceptance of all experiences,
    just as love in the artist is simply the sense of beauty that
    reveals to the world its body and its soul. In MARIUS THE
    EPICUREAN Pater seeks to reconcile the artistic life with the life
    of religion, in the deep, sweet, and austere sense of the word.
    But Marius is little more than a spectator: an ideal spectator
    indeed, and one to whom it is given 'to contemplate the spectacle
    of life with appropriate emotions,' which Wordsworth defines as the
    poet's true aim; yet a spectator merely, and perhaps a little too
    much occupied with the comeliness of the benches of the sanctuary
    to notice that it is the sanctuary of sorrow that he is gazing at.

    I see a far more intimate and immediate connection between the true
    life of Christ and the true life of the artist; and I take a keen
    pleasure in the reflection that long before sorrow had made my days
    her own and bound me to her wheel I had written in THE SOUL OF MAN
    that he who would lead a Christ-like life must be entirely and
    absolutely himself, and had taken as my types not merely the
    shepherd on the hillside and the prisoner in his cell, but also the
    painter to whom the world is a pageant and the poet for whom the
    world is a song. I remember saying once to Andre Gide, as we sat
    together in some Paris CAFE, that while meta-physics had but little
    real interest for me, and morality absolutely none, there was
    nothing that either Plato or Christ had said that could not be
    transferred immediately into the sphere of Art and there find its
    complete fulfilment.

    Nor is it merely that we can discern in Christ that close union of
    personality with perfection which forms the real distinction
    between the classical and romantic movement in life, but the very
    basis of his nature was the same as that of the nature of the
    artist - an intense and flamelike imagination. He realised in the
    entire sphere of human relations that imaginative sympathy which in
    the sphere of Art is the sole secret of creation. He understood
    the leprosy of the leper, the darkness of the blind, the fierce
    misery of those who live for pleasure, the strange poverty of the
    rich. Some one wrote to me in trouble, 'When you are not on your
    pedestal you are not interesting.' How remote was the writer from
    what Matthew Arnold calls 'the Secret of Jesus.' Either would have
    taught him that whatever happens to another happens to oneself, and
    if you want an inscription to read at dawn and at night-time, and
    for pleasure or for pain, write up on the walls of your house in
    letters for the sun to gild and the moon to silver, 'Whatever
    happens to oneself happens to another.'

    Christ's place indeed is with the poets. His whole conception of
    Humanity sprang right out of the imagination and can only be
    realised by it. What God was to the pantheist, man was to Him. He
    was the first to conceive the divided races as a unity. Before his
    time there had been gods and men, and, feeling through the
    mysticism of sympathy that in himself each had been made incarnate,
    he calls himself the Son of the one or the Son of the other,
    according to his mood. More than any one else in history he wakes
    in us that temper of wonder to which romance always appeals. There
    is still something to me almost incredible in the idea of a young
    Galilean peasant imagining that he could bear on his own shoulders
    the burden of the entire world; all that had already been done and
    suffered, and all that was yet to be done and suffered: the sins
    of Nero, of Caesar Borgia, of Alexander VI., and of him who was
    Emperor of Rome and Priest of the Sun: the sufferings of those
    whose names are legion and whose dwelling is among the tombs:
    oppressed nationalities, factory children, thieves, people in
    prison, outcasts, those who are dumb under oppression and whose
    silence is heard only of God; and not merely imagining this but
    actually achieving it, so that at the present moment all who come
    in contact with his personality, even though they may neither bow
    to his altar nor kneel before his priest, in some way find that the
    ugliness of their sin is taken away and the beauty of their sorrow
    revealed to them.

    I had said of Christ that he ranks with the poets. That is true.
    Shelley and Sophocles are of his company. But his entire life also
    is the most wonderful of poems. For 'pity and terror' there is
    nothing in the entire cycle of Greek tragedy to touch it. The
    absolute purity of the protagonist raises the entire scheme to a
    height of romantic art from which the sufferings of Thebes and
    Pelops' line are by their very horror excluded, and shows how wrong
    Aristotle was when he said in his treatise on the drama that it
    would be impossible to bear the spectacle of one blameless in pain.
    Nor in AEschylus nor Dante, those stern masters of tenderness, in
    Shakespeare, the most purely human of all the great artists, in the
    whole of Celtic myth and legend, where the loveliness of the world
    is shown through a mist of tears, and the life of a man is no more
    than the life of a flower, is there anything that, for sheer
    simplicity of pathos wedded and made one with sublimity of tragic
    effect, can be said to equal or even approach the last act of
    Christ's passion. The little supper with his companions, one of
    whom has already sold him for a price; the anguish in the quiet
    moon-lit garden; the false friend coming close to him so as to
    betray him with a kiss; the friend who still believed in him, and
    on whom as on a rock he had hoped to build a house of refuge for
    Man, denying him as the bird cried to the dawn; his own utter
    loneliness, his submission, his acceptance of everything; and along
    with it all such scenes as the high priest of orthodoxy rending his
    raiment in wrath, and the magistrate of civil justice calling for
    water in the vain hope of cleansing himself of that stain of
    innocent blood that makes him the scarlet figure of history; the
    coronation ceremony of sorrow, one of the most wonderful things in
    the whole of recorded time; the crucifixion of the Innocent One
    before the eyes of his mother and of the disciple whom he loved;
    the soldiers gambling and throwing dice for his clothes; the
    terrible death by which he gave the world its most eternal symbol;
    and his final burial in the tomb of the rich man, his body swathed
    in Egyptian linen with costly spices and perfumes as though he had
    been a king's son. When one contemplates all this from the point
    of view of art alone one cannot but be grateful that the supreme
    office of the Church should be the playing of the tragedy without
    the shedding of blood: the mystical presentation, by means of
    dialogue and costume and gesture even, of the Passion of her Lord;
    and it is always a source of pleasure and awe to me to remember
    that the ultimate survival of the Greek chorus, lost elsewhere to
    art, is to be found in the servitor answering the priest at Mass.

    Yet the whole life of Christ - so entirely may sorrow and beauty be
    made one in their meaning and manifestation - is really an idyll,
    though it ends with the veil of the temple being rent, and the
    darkness coming over the face of the earth, and the stone rolled to
    the door of the sepulchre. One always thinks of him as a young
    bridegroom with his companions, as indeed he somewhere describes
    himself; as a shepherd straying through a valley with his sheep in
    search of green meadow or cool stream; as a singer trying to build
    out of the music the walls of the City of God; or as a lover for
    whose love the whole world was too small. His miracles seem to me
    to be as exquisite as the coming of spring, and quite as natural.
    I see no difficulty at all in believing that such was the charm of
    his personality that his mere presence could bring peace to souls
    in anguish, and that those who touched his garments or his hands
    forgot their pain; or that as he passed by on the highway of life
    people who had seen nothing of life's mystery, saw it clearly, and
    others who had been deaf to every voice but that of pleasure heard
    for the first time the voice of love and found it as 'musical as
    Apollo's lute'; or that evil passions fled at his approach, and men
    whose dull unimaginative lives had been but a mode of death rose as
    it were from the grave when he called them; or that when he taught
    on the hillside the multitude forgot their hunger and thirst and
    the cares of this world, and that to his friends who listened to
    him as he sat at meat the coarse food seemed delicate, and the
    water had the taste of good wine, and the whole house became full
    of the odour and sweetness of nard.

    Renan in his VIE DE JESUS - that gracious fifth gospel, the gospel
    according to St. Thomas, one might call it - says somewhere that
    Christ's great achievement was that he made himself as much loved
    after his death as he had been during his lifetime. And certainly,
    if his place is among the poets, he is the leader of all the
    lovers. He saw that love was the first secret of the world for
    which the wise men had been looking, and that it was only through
    love that one could approach either the heart of the leper or the
    feet of God.

    And above all, Christ is the most supreme of individualists.
    Humility, like the artistic, acceptance of all experiences, is
    merely a mode of manifestation. It is man's soul that Christ is
    always looking for. He calls it 'God's Kingdom,' and finds it in
    every one. He compares it to little things, to a tiny seed, to a
    handful of leaven, to a pearl. That is because one realises one's
    soul only by getting rid of all alien passions, all acquired
    culture, and all external possessions, be they good or evil.

    I bore up against everything with some stubbornness of will and
    much rebellion of nature, till I had absolutely nothing left in the
    world but one thing. I had lost my name, my position, my
    happiness, my freedom, my wealth. I was a prisoner and a pauper.
    But I still had my children left. Suddenly they were taken away
    from me by the law. It was a blow so appalling that I did not know
    what to do, so I flung myself on my knees, and bowed my head, and
    wept, and said, 'The body of a child is as the body of the Lord: I
    am not worthy of either.' That moment seemed to save me. I saw
    then that the only thing for me was to accept everything. Since
    then - curious as it will no doubt sound - I have been happier. It
    was of course my soul in its ultimate essence that I had reached.
    In many ways I had been its enemy, but I found it waiting for me as
    a friend. When one comes in contact with the soul it makes one
    simple as a child, as Christ said one should be.

    It is tragic how few people ever 'possess their souls' before they
    die. 'Nothing is more rare in any man,' says Emerson, 'than an act
    of his own.' It is quite true. Most people are other people.
    Their thoughts are some one else's opinions, their lives a mimicry,
    their passions a quotation. Christ was not merely the supreme
    individualist, but he was the first individualist in history.
    People have tried to make him out an ordinary philanthropist, or
    ranked him as an altruist with the scientific and sentimental. But
    he was really neither one nor the other. Pity he has, of course,
    for the poor, for those who are shut up in prisons, for the lowly,
    for the wretched; but he has far more pity for the rich, for the
    hard hedonists, for those who waste their freedom in becoming
    slaves to things, for those who wear soft raiment and live in
    kings' houses. Riches and pleasure seemed to him to be really
    greater tragedies than poverty or sorrow. And as for altruism, who
    knew better than he that it is vocation not volition that
    determines us, and that one cannot gather grapes of thorns or figs
    from thistles?

    To live for others as a definite self-conscious aim was not his
    creed. It was not the basis of his creed. When he says, 'Forgive
    your enemies,' it is not for the sake of the enemy, but for one's
    own sake that he says so, and because love is more beautiful than
    hate. In his own entreaty to the young man, 'Sell all that thou
    hast and give to the poor,' it is not of the state of the poor that
    he is thinking but of the soul of the young man, the soul that
    wealth was marring. In his view of life he is one with the artist
    who knows that by the inevitable law of self-perfection, the poet
    must sing, and the sculptor think in bronze, and the painter make
    the world a mirror for his moods, as surely and as certainly as the
    hawthorn must blossom in spring, and the corn turn to gold at
    harvest-time, and the moon in her ordered wanderings change from
    shield to sickle, and from sickle to shield.

    But while Christ did not say to men, 'Live for others,' he pointed
    out that there was no difference at all between the lives of others
    and one's own life. By this means he gave to man an extended, a
    Titan personality. Since his coming the history of each separate
    individual is, or can be made, the history of the world. Of
    course, culture has intensified the personality of man. Art has
    made us myriad-minded. Those who have the artistic temperament go
    into exile with Dante and learn how salt is the bread of others,
    and how steep their stairs; they catch for a moment the serenity
    and calm of Goethe, and yet know but too well that Baudelaire cried
    to God -

    'O Seigneur, donnez moi la force et le courage
    De contempler mon corps et mon coeur sans degout.'

    Out of Shakespeare's sonnets they draw, to their own hurt it may
    be, the secret of his love and make it their own; they look with
    new eyes on modern life, because they have listened to one of
    Chopin's nocturnes, or handled Greek things, or read the story of
    the passion of some dead man for some dead woman whose hair was
    like threads of fine gold, and whose mouth was as a pomegranate.
    But the sympathy of the artistic temperament is necessarily with
    what has found expression. In words or in colours, in music or in
    marble, behind the painted masks of an AEschylean play, or through
    some Sicilian shepherds' pierced and jointed reeds, the man and his
    message must have been revealed.

    To the artist, expression is the only mode under which he can
    conceive life at all. To him what is dumb is dead. But to Christ
    it was not so. With a width and wonder of imagination that fills
    one almost with awe, he took the entire world of the inarticulate,
    the voiceless world of pain, as his kingdom, and made of himself
    its eternal mouthpiece. Those of whom I have spoken, who are dumb
    under oppression, and 'whose silence is heard only of God,' he
    chose as his brothers. He sought to become eyes to the blind, ears
    to the deaf, and a cry in the lips of those whose tongues had been
    tied. His desire was to be to the myriads who had found no
    utterance a very trumpet through which they might call to heaven.
    And feeling, with the artistic nature of one to whom suffering and
    sorrow were modes through which he could realise his conception of
    the beautiful, that an idea is of no value till it becomes
    incarnate and is made an image, he made of himself the image of the
    Man of Sorrows, and as such has fascinated and dominated art as no
    Greek god ever succeeded in doing.

    For the Greek gods, in spite of the white and red of their fair
    fleet limbs, were not really what they appeared to be. The curved
    brow of Apollo was like the sun's disc crescent over a hill at
    dawn, and his feet were as the wings of the morning, but he himself
    had been cruel to Marsyas and had made Niobe childless. In the
    steel shields of Athena's eyes there had been no pity for Arachne;
    the pomp and peacocks of Hera were all that was really noble about
    her; and the Father of the Gods himself had been too fond of the
    daughters of men. The two most deeply suggestive figures of Greek
    Mythology were, for religion, Demeter, an Earth Goddess, not one of
    the Olympians, and for art, Dionysus, the son of a mortal woman to
    whom the moment of his birth had proved also the moment of her
    death.

    But Life itself from its lowliest and most humble sphere produced
    one far more marvellous than the mother of Proserpina or the son of
    Semele. Out of the Carpenter's shop at Nazareth had come a
    personality infinitely greater than any made by myth and legend,
    and one, strangely enough, destined to reveal to the world the
    mystical meaning of wine and the real beauties of the lilies of the
    field as none, either on Cithaeron or at Enna, had ever done.

    The song of Isaiah, 'He is despised and rejected of men, a man of
    sorrows and acquainted with grief: and we hid as it were our faces
    from him,' had seemed to him to prefigure himself, and in him the
    prophecy was fulfilled. We must not be afraid of such a phrase.
    Every single work of art is the fulfilment of a prophecy: for
    every work of art is the conversion of an idea into an image.
    Every single human being should be the fulfilment of a prophecy:
    for every human being should be the realisation of some ideal,
    either in the mind of God or in the mind of man. Christ found the
    type and fixed it, and the dream of a Virgilian poet, either at
    Jerusalem or at Babylon, became in the long progress of the
    centuries incarnate in him for whom the world was waiting.

    To me one of the things in history the most to be regretted is that
    the Christ's own renaissance, which has produced the Cathedral at
    Chartres, the Arthurian cycle of legends, the life of St. Francis
    of Assisi, the art of Giotto, and Dante's DIVINE COMEDY, was not
    allowed to develop on its own lines, but was interrupted and
    spoiled by the dreary classical Renaissance that gave us Petrarch,
    and Raphael's frescoes, and Palladian architecture, and formal
    French tragedy, and St. Paul's Cathedral, and Pope's poetry, and
    everything that is made from without and by dead rules, and does
    not spring from within through some spirit informing it. But
    wherever there is a romantic movement in art there somehow, and
    under some form, is Christ, or the soul of Christ. He is in ROMEO
    AND JULIET, in the WINTER'S TALE, in Provencal poetry, in the
    ANCIENT MARINER, in LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI, and in Chatterton's
    BALLAD OF CHARITY.

    We owe to him the most diverse things and people. Hugo's LES
    MISERABLES, Baudelaire's FLEURS DU MAL, the note of pity in Russian
    novels, Verlaine and Verlaine's poems, the stained glass and
    tapestries and the quattro-cento work of Burne-Jones and Morris,
    belong to him no less than the tower of Giotto, Lancelot and
    Guinevere, Tannhauser, the troubled romantic marbles of Michael
    Angelo, pointed architecture, and the love of children and flowers
    - for both of which, indeed, in classical art there was but little
    place, hardly enough for them to grow or play in, but which, from
    the twelfth century down to our own day, have been continually
    making their appearances in art, under various modes and at various
    times, coming fitfully and wilfully, as children, as flowers, are
    apt to do: spring always seeming to one as if the flowers had been
    in hiding, and only came out into the sun because they were afraid
    that grown up people would grow tired of looking for them and give
    up the search; and the life of a child being no more than an April
    day on which there is both rain and sun for the narcissus.

    It is the imaginative quality of Christ's own nature that makes him
    this palpitating centre of romance. The strange figures of poetic
    drama and ballad are made by the imagination of others, but out of
    his own imagination entirely did Jesus of Nazareth create himself.
    The cry of Isaiah had really no more to do with his coming than the
    song of the nightingale has to do with the rising of the moon - no
    more, though perhaps no less. He was the denial as well as the
    affirmation of prophecy. For every expectation that he fulfilled
    there was another that he destroyed. 'In all beauty,' says Bacon,
    'there is some strangeness of proportion,' and of those who are
    born of the spirit - of those, that is to say, who like himself are
    dynamic forces - Christ says that they are like the wind that
    'bloweth where it listeth, and no man can tell whence it cometh and
    whither it goeth.' That is why he is so fascinating to artists.
    He has all the colour elements of life: mystery, strangeness,
    pathos, suggestion, ecstasy, love. He appeals to the temper of
    wonder, and creates that mood in which alone he can be understood.

    And to me it is a joy to remember that if he is 'of imagination all
    compact,' the world itself is of the same substance. I said in
    DORIAN GRAY that the great sins of the world take place in the
    brain: but it is in the brain that everything takes place. We
    know now that we do not see with the eyes or hear with the ears.
    They are really channels for the transmission, adequate or
    inadequate, of sense impressions. It is in the brain that the
    poppy is red, that the apple is odorous, that the skylark sings.

    Of late I have been studying with diligence the four prose poems
    about Christ. At Christmas I managed to get hold of a Greek
    Testament, and every morning, after I had cleaned my cell and
    polished my tins, I read a little of the Gospels, a dozen verses
    taken by chance anywhere. It is a delightful way of opening the
    day. Every one, even in a turbulent, ill-disciplined life, should
    do the same. Endless repetition, in and out of season, has spoiled
    for us the freshness, the naivete, the simple romantic charm of the
    Gospels. We hear them read far too often and far too badly, and
    all repetition is anti-spiritual. When one returns to the Greek;
    it is like going into a garden of lilies out of some, narrow and
    dark house.

    And to me, the pleasure is doubled by the reflection that it is
    extremely probable that we have the actual terms, the IPSISSIMA
    VERBA, used by Christ. It was always supposed that Christ talked
    in Aramaic. Even Renan thought so. But now we know that the
    Galilean peasants, like the Irish peasants of our own day, were
    bilingual, and that Greek was the ordinary language of intercourse
    all over Palestine, as indeed all over the Eastern world. I never
    liked the idea that we knew of Christ's own words only through a
    translation of a translation. It is a delight to me to think that
    as far as his conversation was concerned, Charmides might have
    listened to him, and Socrates reasoned with him, and Plato
    understood him: that he really said [Greek text which cannot be
    reproduced], that when he thought of the lilies of the field and
    how they neither toil nor spin, his absolute expression was [Greek
    text which cannot be reproduced], and that his last word when he
    cried out 'my life has been completed, has reached its fulfilment,
    has been perfected,' was exactly as St. John tells us it was:
    [Greek text which cannot be reproduced] - no more.

    While in reading the Gospels - particularly that of St. John
    himself, or whatever early Gnostic took his name and mantle - I see
    the continual assertion of the imagination as the basis of all
    spiritual and material life, I see also that to Christ imagination
    was simply a form of love, and that to him love was lord in the
    fullest meaning of the phrase. Some six weeks ago I was allowed by
    the doctor to have white bread to eat instead of the coarse black
    or brown bread of ordinary prison fare. It is a great delicacy.
    It will sound strange that dry bread could possibly be a delicacy
    to any one. To me it is so much so that at the close of each meal
    I carefully eat whatever crumbs may be left on my tin plate, or
    have fallen on the rough towel that one uses as a cloth so as not
    to soil one's table; and I do so not from hunger - I get now quite
    sufficient food - but simply in order that nothing should be wasted
    of what is given to me. So one should look on love.

    Christ, like all fascinating personalities, had the power of not
    merely saying beautiful things himself, but of making other people
    say beautiful things to him; and I love the story St. Mark tells us
    about the Greek woman, who, when as a trial of her faith he said to
    her that he could not give her the bread of the children of Israel,
    answered him that the little dogs - ([Greek text which cannot be
    reproduced], 'little dogs' it should be rendered) - who are under
    the table eat of the crumbs that the children let fall. Most
    people live for love and admiration. But it is by love and
    admiration that we should live. If any love is shown us we should
    recognise that we are quite unworthy of it. Nobody is worthy to be
    loved. The fact that God loves man shows us that in the divine
    order of ideal things it is written that eternal love is to be
    given to what is eternally unworthy. Or if that phrase seems to be
    a bitter one to bear, let us say that every one is worthy of love,
    except him who thinks that he is. Love is a sacrament that should
    be taken kneeling, and DOMINE, NON SUM DIGNUS should be on the lips
    and in the hearts of those who receive it.

    If ever I write again, in the sense of producing artistic work,
    there are just two subjects on which and through which I desire to
    express myself: one is 'Christ as the precursor of the romantic
    movement in life': the other is 'The artistic life considered in
    its relation to conduct.' The first is, of course, intensely
    fascinating, for I see in Christ not merely the essentials of the
    supreme romantic type, but all the accidents, the wilfulnesses
    even, of the romantic temperament also. He was the first person
    who ever said to people that they should live 'flower-like lives.'
    He fixed the phrase. He took children as the type of what people
    should try to become. He held them up as examples to their elders,
    which I myself have always thought the chief use of children, if
    what is perfect should have a use. Dante describes the soul of a
    man as coming from the hand of God 'weeping and laughing like a
    little child,' and Christ also saw that the soul of each one should
    be A GUISA DI FANCIULLA CHE PIANGENDO E RIDENDO PARGOLEGGIA. He
    felt that life was changeful, fluid, active, and that to allow it
    to be stereotyped into any form was death. He saw that people
    should not be too serious over material, common interests: that to
    be unpractical was to be a great thing: that one should not bother
    too much over affairs. The birds didn't, why should man? He is
    charming when he says, 'Take no thought for the morrow; is not the
    soul more than meat? is not the body more than raiment?' A Greek
    might have used the latter phrase. It is full of Greek feeling.
    But only Christ could have said both, and so summed up life
    perfectly for us.

    His morality is all sympathy, just what morality should be. If the
    only thing that he ever said had been, 'Her sins are forgiven her
    because she loved much,' it would have been worth while dying to
    have said it. His justice is all poetical justice, exactly what
    justice should be. The beggar goes to heaven because he has been
    unhappy. I cannot conceive a better reason for his being sent
    there. The people who work for an hour in the vineyard in the cool
    of the evening receive just as much reward as those who have toiled
    there all day long in the hot sun. Why shouldn't they? Probably
    no one deserved anything. Or perhaps they were a different kind of
    people. Christ had no patience with the dull lifeless mechanical
    systems that treat people as if they were things, and so treat
    everybody alike: for him there were no laws: there were
    exceptions merely, as if anybody, or anything, for that matter, was
    like aught else in the world!

    That which is the very keynote of romantic art was to him the
    proper basis of natural life. He saw no other basis. And when
    they brought him one, taken in the very act of sin and showed him
    her sentence written in the law, and asked him what was to be done,
    he wrote with his finger on the ground as though he did not hear
    them, and finally, when they pressed him again, looked up and said,
    'Let him of you who has never sinned be the first to throw the
    stone at her.' It was worth while living to have said that.

    Like all poetical natures he loved ignorant people. He knew that
    in the soul of one who is ignorant there is always room for a great
    idea. But he could not stand stupid people, especially those who
    are made stupid by education: people who are full of opinions not
    one of which they even understand, a peculiarly modern type, summed
    up by Christ when he describes it as the type of one who has the
    key of knowledge, cannot use it himself, and does not allow other
    people to use it, though it may be made to open the gate of God's
    Kingdom. His chief war was against the Philistines. That is the
    war every child of light has to wage. Philistinism was the note of
    the age and community in which he lived. In their heavy
    inaccessibility to ideas, their dull respectability, their tedious
    orthodoxy, their worship of vulgar success, their entire
    preoccupation with the gross materialistic side of life, and their
    ridiculous estimate of themselves and their importance, the Jews of
    Jerusalem in Christ's day were the exact counterpart of the British
    Philistine of our own. Christ mocked at the 'whited sepulchre' of
    respectability, and fixed that phrase for ever. He treated worldly
    success as a thing absolutely to be despised. He saw nothing in it
    at all. He looked on wealth as an encumbrance to a man. He would
    not hear of life being sacrificed to any system of thought or
    morals. He pointed out that forms and ceremonies were made for
    man, not man for forms and ceremonies. He took sabbatarianism as a
    type of the things that should be set at nought. The cold
    philanthropies, the ostentatious public charities, the tedious
    formalisms so dear to the middle-class mind, he exposed with utter
    and relentless scorn. To us, what is termed orthodoxy is merely a
    facile unintelligent acquiescence; but to them, and in their hands,
    it was a terrible and paralysing tyranny. Christ swept it aside.
    He showed that the spirit alone was of value. He took a keen
    pleasure in pointing out to them that though they were always
    reading the law and the prophets, they had not really the smallest
    idea of what either of them meant. In opposition to their tithing
    of each separate day into the fixed routine of prescribed duties,
    as they tithe mint and rue, he preached the enormous importance of
    living completely for the moment.

    Those whom he saved from their sins are saved simply for beautiful
    moments in their lives. Mary Magdalen, when she sees Christ,
    breaks the rich vase of alabaster that one of her seven lovers had
    given her, and spills the odorous spices over his tired dusty feet,
    and for that one moment's sake sits for ever with Ruth and Beatrice
    in the tresses of the snow-white rose of Paradise. All that Christ
    says to us by the way of a little warning is that every moment
    should be beautiful, that the soul should always be ready for the
    coming of the bridegroom, always waiting for the voice of the
    lover, Philistinism being simply that side of man's nature that is
    not illumined by the imagination. He sees all the lovely
    influences of life as modes of light: the imagination itself is
    the world of light. The world is made by it, and yet the world
    cannot understand it: that is because the imagination is simply a
    manifestation of love, and it is love and the capacity for it that
    distinguishes one human being from another.

    But it is when he deals with a sinner that Christ is most romantic,
    in the sense of most real. The world had always loved the saint as
    being the nearest possible approach to the perfection of God.
    Christ, through some divine instinct in him, seems to have always
    loved the sinner as being the nearest possible approach to the
    perfection of man. His primary desire was not to reform people,
    any more than his primary desire was to a relieve suffering. To
    turn an interesting thief into a tedious honest man was not his
    aim. He would have thought little of the Prisoners' Aid Society
    and other modern movements of the kind. The conversion of a
    publican into a Pharisee would not have seemed to him a great
    achievement. But in a manner not yet understood of the world he
    regarded sin and suffering as being in themselves beautiful holy
    things and modes of perfection.

    It seems a very dangerous idea. It is - all great ideas are
    dangerous. That it was Christ's creed admits of no doubt. That it
    is the true creed I don't doubt myself.

    Of course the sinner must repent. But why? Simply because
    otherwise he would be unable to realise what he had done. The
    moment of repentance is the moment of initiation. More than that:
    it is the means by which one alters one's past. The Greeks thought
    that impossible. They often say in their Gnomic aphorisms, 'Even
    the Gods cannot alter the past.' Christ showed that the commonest
    sinner could do it, that it was the one thing he could do. Christ,
    had he been asked, would have said - I feel quite certain about it
    - that the moment the prodigal son fell on his knees and wept, he
    made his having wasted his substance with harlots, his swine-
    herding and hungering for the husks they ate, beautiful and holy
    moments in his life. It is difficult for most people to grasp the
    idea. I dare say one has to go to prison to understand it. If so,
    it may be worth while going to prison.

    There is something so unique about Christ. Of course just as there
    are false dawns before the dawn itself, and winter days so full of
    sudden sunlight that they will cheat the wise crocus into
    squandering its gold before its time, and make some foolish bird
    call to its mate to build on barren boughs, so there were
    Christians before Christ. For that we should be grateful. The
    unfortunate thing is that there have been none since. I make one
    exception, St. Francis of Assisi. But then God had given him at
    his birth the soul of a poet, as he himself when quite young had in
    mystical marriage taken poverty as his bride: and with the soul of
    a poet and the body of a beggar he found the way to perfection not
    difficult. He understood Christ, and so he became like him. We do
    not require the Liber Conformitatum to teach us that the life of
    St. Francis was the true IMITATIO CHRISTI, a poem compared to which
    the book of that name is merely prose.

    Indeed, that is the charm about Christ, when all is said: he is
    just like a work of art. He does not really teach one anything,
    but by being brought into his presence one becomes something. And
    everybody is predestined to his presence. Once at least in his
    life each man walks with Christ to Emmaus.

    As regards the other subject, the Relation of the Artistic Life to
    Conduct, it will no doubt seem strange to you that I should select
    it. People point to Reading Gaol and say, 'That is where the
    artistic life leads a man.' Well, it might lead to worse places.
    The more mechanical people to whom life is a shrewd speculation
    depending on a careful calculation of ways and means, always know
    where they are going, and go there. They start with the ideal
    desire of being the parish beadle, and in whatever sphere they are
    placed they succeed in being the parish beadle and no more. A man
    whose desire is to be something separate from himself, to be a
    member of Parliament, or a successful grocer, or a prominent
    solicitor, or a judge, or something equally tedious, invariably
    succeeds in being what he wants to be. That is his punishment.
    Those who want a mask have to wear it.

    But with the dynamic forces of life, and those in whom those
    dynamic forces become incarnate, it is different. People whose
    desire is solely for self-realisation never know where they are
    going. They can't know. In one sense of the word it is of course
    necessary, as the Greek oracle said, to know oneself: that is the
    first achievement of knowledge. But to recognise that the soul of
    a man is unknowable, is the ultimate achievement of wisdom. The
    final mystery is oneself. When one has weighed the sun in the
    balance, and measured the steps of the moon, and mapped out the
    seven heavens star by star, there still remains oneself. Who can
    calculate the orbit of his own soul? When the son went out to look
    for his father's asses, he did not know that a man of God was
    waiting for him with the very chrism of coronation, and that his
    own soul was already the soul of a king.

    I hope to live long enough and to produce work of such a character
    that I shall be able at the end of my days to say, 'Yes! this is
    just where the artistic life leads a man!' Two of the most perfect
    lives I have come across in my own experience are the lives of
    Verlaine and of Prince Kropotkin: both of them men who have passed
    years in prison: the first, the one Christian poet since Dante;
    the other, a man with a soul of that beautiful white Christ which
    seems coming out of Russia. And for the last seven or eight
    months, in spite of a succession of great troubles reaching me from
    the outside world almost without intermission, I have been placed
    in direct contact with a new spirit working in this prison through
    man and things, that has helped me beyond any possibility of
    expression in words: so that while for the first year of my
    imprisonment I did nothing else, and can remember doing nothing
    else, but wring my hands in impotent despair, and say, 'What an
    ending, what an appalling ending!' now I try to say to myself, and
    sometimes when I am not torturing myself do really and sincerely
    say, 'What a beginning, what a wonderful beginning!' It may really
    be so. It may become so. If it does I shall owe much to this new
    personality that has altered every man's life in this place.

    You may realise it when I say that had I been released last May, as
    I tried to be, I would have left this place loathing it and every
    official in it with a bitterness of hatred that would have poisoned
    my life. I have had a year longer of imprisonment, but humanity
    has been in the prison along with us all, and now when I go out I
    shall always remember great kindnesses that I have received here
    from almost everybody, and on the day of my release I shall give
    many thanks to many people, and ask to be remembered by them in
    turn.

    The prison style is absolutely and entirely wrong. I would give
    anything to be able to alter it when I go out. I intend to try.
    But there is nothing in the world so wrong but that the spirit of
    humanity, which is the spirit of love, the spirit of the Christ who
    is not in churches, may make it, if not right, at least possible to
    be borne without too much bitterness of heart.

    I know also that much is waiting for me outside that is very
    delightful, from what St. Francis of Assisi calls 'my brother the
    wind, and my sister the rain,' lovely things both of them, down to
    the shop-windows and sunsets of great cities. If I made a list of
    all that still remains to me, I don't know where I should stop:
    for, indeed, God made the world just as much for me as for any one
    else. Perhaps I may go out with something that I had not got
    before. I need not tell you that to me reformations in morals are
    as meaningless and vulgar as Reformations in theology. But while
    to propose to be a better man is a piece of unscientific cant, to
    have become a deeper man is the privilege of those who have
    suffered. And such I think I have become.

    If after I am free a friend of mine gave a feast, and did not
    invite me to it, I should not mind a bit. I can be perfectly happy
    by myself. With freedom, flowers, books, and the moon, who could
    not be perfectly happy? Besides, feasts are not for me any more.
    I have given too many to care about them. That side of life is
    over for me, very fortunately, I dare say. But if after I am free
    a friend of mine had a sorrow and refused to allow me to share it,
    I should feel it most bitterly. If he shut the doors of the house
    of mourning against me, I would come back again and again and beg
    to be admitted, so that I might share in what I was entitled to
    share in. If he thought me unworthy, unfit to weep with him, I
    should feel it as the most poignant humiliation, as the most
    terrible mode in which disgrace could be inflicted on me. But that
    could not be. I have a right to share in sorrow, and he who can
    look at the loveliness of the world and share its sorrow, and
    realise something of the wonder of both, is in immediate contact
    with divine things, and has got as near to God's secret as any one
    can get.

    Perhaps there may come into my art also, no less than into my life,
    a still deeper note, one of greater unity of passion, and
    directness of impulse. Not width but intensity is the true aim of
    modern art. We are no longer in art concerned with the type. It
    is with the exception that we have to do. I cannot put my
    sufferings into any form they took, I need hardly say. Art only
    begins where Imitation ends, but something must come into my work,
    of fuller memory of words perhaps, of richer cadences, of more
    curious effects, of simpler architectural order, of some aesthetic
    quality at any rate.

    When Marsyas was 'torn from the scabbard of his limbs' - DELLA
    VAGINA DELLA MEMBRE SUE, to use one of Dante's most terrible
    Tacitean phrases - he had no more song, the Greek said. Apollo had
    been victor. The lyre had vanquished the reed. But perhaps the
    Greeks were mistaken. I hear in much modern Art the cry of
    Marsyas. It is bitter in Baudelaire, sweet and plaintive in
    Lamartine, mystic in Verlaine. It is in the deferred resolutions
    of Chopin's music. It is in the discontent that haunts Burne-
    Jones's women. Even Matthew Arnold, whose song of Callicles tells
    of 'the triumph of the sweet persuasive lyre,' and the 'famous
    final victory,' in such a clear note of lyrical beauty, has not a
    little of it; in the troubled undertone of doubt and distress that
    haunts his verses, neither Goethe nor Wordsworth could help him,
    though he followed each in turn, and when he seeks to mourn for
    THYRSIS or to sing of the SCHOLAR GIPSY, it is the reed that he has
    to take for the rendering of his strain. But whether or not the
    Phrygian Faun was silent, I cannot be. Expression is as necessary
    to me as leaf and blossoms are to the black branches of the trees
    that show themselves above the prison walls and are so restless in
    the wind. Between my art and the world there is now a wide gulf,
    but between art and myself there is none. I hope at least that
    there is none.

    To each of us different fates are meted out. My lot has been one
    of public infamy, of long imprisonment, of misery, of ruin, of
    disgrace, but I am not worthy of it - not yet, at any rate. I
    remember that I used to say that I thought I could bear a real
    tragedy if it came to me with purple pall and a mask of noble
    sorrow, but that the dreadful thing about modernity was that it put
    tragedy into the raiment of comedy, so that the great realities
    seemed commonplace or grotesque or lacking in style. It is quite
    true about modernity. It has probably always been true about
    actual life. It is said that all martyrdoms seemed mean to the
    looker on. The nineteenth century is no exception to the rule.

    Everything about my tragedy has been hideous, mean, repellent,
    lacking in style; our very dress makes us grotesque. We are the
    zanies of sorrow. We are clowns whose hearts are broken. We are
    specially designed to appeal to the sense of humour. On November
    13th, 1895, I was brought down here from London. From two o'clock
    till half-past two on that day I had to stand on the centre
    platform of Clapham Junction in convict dress, and handcuffed, for
    the world to look at. I had been taken out of the hospital ward
    without a moment's notice being given to me. Of all possible
    objects I was the most grotesque. When people saw me they laughed.
    Each train as it came up swelled the audience. Nothing could
    exceed their amusement. That was, of course, before they knew who
    I was. As soon as they had been informed they laughed still more.
    For half an hour I stood there in the grey November rain surrounded
    by a jeering mob.

    For a year after that was done to me I wept every day at the same
    hour and for the same space of time. That is not such a tragic
    thing as possibly it sounds to you. To those who are in prison
    tears are a part of every day's experience. A day in prison on
    which one does not weep is a day on which one's heart is hard, not
    a day on which one's heart is happy.

    Well, now I am really beginning to feel more regret for the people
    who laughed than for myself. Of course when they saw me I was not
    on my pedestal, I was in the pillory. But it is a very
    unimaginative nature that only cares for people on their pedestals.
    A pedestal may be a very unreal thing. A pillory is a terrific
    reality. They should have known also how to interpret sorrow
    better. I have said that behind sorrow there is always sorrow. It
    were wiser still to say that behind sorrow there is always a soul.
    And to mock at a soul in pain is a dreadful thing. In the
    strangely simple economy of the world people only get what they
    give, and to those who have not enough imagination to penetrate the
    mere outward of things, and feel pity, what pity can be given save
    that of scorn?

    I write this account of the mode of my being transferred here
    simply that it should be realised how hard it has been for me to
    get anything out of my punishment but bitterness and despair. I
    have, however, to do it, and now and then I have moments of
    submission and acceptance. All the spring may be hidden in the
    single bud, and the low ground nest of the lark may hold the joy
    that is to herald the feet of many rose-red dawns. So perhaps
    whatever beauty of life still remains to me is contained in some
    moment of surrender, abasement, and humiliation. I can, at any
    rate, merely proceed on the lines of my own development, and,
    accepting all that has happened to me, make myself worthy of it.

    People used to say of me that I was too individualistic. I must be
    far more of an individualist than ever I was. I must get far more
    out of myself than ever I got, and ask far less of the world than
    ever I asked. Indeed, my ruin came not from too great
    individualism of life, but from too little. The one disgraceful,
    unpardonable, and to all time contemptible action of my life was to
    allow myself to appeal to society for help and protection. To have
    made such an appeal would have been from the individualist point of
    view bad enough, but what excuse can there ever be put forward for
    having made it? Of course once I had put into motion the forces of
    society, society turned on me and said, 'Have you been living all
    this time in defiance of my laws, and do you now appeal to those
    laws for protection? You shall have those laws exercised to the
    full. You shall abide by what you have appealed to.' The result
    is I am in gaol. Certainly no man ever fell so ignobly, and by
    such ignoble instruments, as I did.

    The Philistine element in life is not the failure to understand
    art. Charming people, such as fishermen, shepherds, ploughboys,
    peasants and the like, know nothing about art, and are the very
    salt of the earth. He is the Philistine who upholds and aids the
    heavy, cumbrous, blind, mechanical forces of society, and who does
    not recognise dynamic force when he meets it either in a man or a
    movement.

    People thought it dreadful of me to have entertained at dinner the
    evil things of life, and to have found pleasure in their company.
    But then, from the point of view through which I, as an artist in
    life, approach them they were delightfully suggestive and
    stimulating. The danger was half the excitement. . . . My business
    as an artist was with Ariel. I set myself to wrestle with Caliban.
    . . .

    A great friend of mine - a friend of ten years' standing - came to
    see me some time ago, and told me that he did not believe a single
    word of what was said against me, and wished me to know that he
    considered me quite innocent, and the victim of a hideous plot. I
    burst into tears at what he said, and told him that while there was
    much amongst the definite charges that was quite untrue and
    transferred to me by revolting malice, still that my life had been
    full of perverse pleasures, and that unless he accepted that as a
    fact about me and realised it to the full I could not possibly be
    friends with him any more, or ever be in his company. It was a
    terrible shock to him, but we are friends, and I have not got his
    friendship on false pretences.

    Emotional forces, as I say somewhere in INTENTIONS, are as limited
    in extent and duration as the forces of physical energy. The
    little cup that is made to hold so much can hold so much and no
    more, though all the purple vats of Burgundy be filled with wine to
    the brim, and the treaders stand knee-deep in the gathered grapes
    of the stony vineyards of Spain. There is no error more common
    than that of thinking that those who are the causes or occasions of
    great tragedies share in the feelings suitable to the tragic mood:
    no error more fatal than expecting it of them. The martyr in his
    'shirt of flame' may be looking on the face of God, but to him who
    is piling the faggots or loosening the logs for the blast the whole
    scene is no more than the slaying of an ox is to the butcher, or
    the felling of a tree to the charcoal burner in the forest, or the
    fall of a flower to one who is mowing down the grass with a scythe.
    Great passions are for the great of soul, and great events can be
    seen only by those who are on a level with them.

    * * * * *

    I know of nothing in all drama more incomparable from the point of
    view of art, nothing more suggestive in its subtlety of
    observation, than Shakespeare's drawing of Rosencrantz and
    Guildenstern. They are Hamlet's college friends. They have been
    his companions. They bring with them memories of pleasant days
    together. At the moment when they come across him in the play he
    is staggering under the weight of a burden intolerable to one of
    his temperament. The dead have come armed out of the grave to
    impose on him a mission at once too great and too mean for him. He
    is a dreamer, and he is called upon to act. He has the nature of
    the poet, and he is asked to grapple with the common complexity of
    cause and effect, with life in its practical realisation, of which
    he knows nothing, not with life in its ideal essence, of which he
    knows so much. He has no conception of what to do, and his folly
    is to feign folly. Brutus used madness as a cloak to conceal the
    sword of his purpose, the dagger of his will, but the Hamlet
    madness is a mere mask for the hiding of weakness. In the making
    of fancies and jests he sees a chance of delay. He keeps playing
    with action as an artist plays with a theory. He makes himself the
    spy of his proper actions, and listening to his own words knows
    them to be but 'words, words, words.' Instead of trying to be the
    hero of his own history, he seeks to be the spectator of his own
    tragedy. He disbelieves in everything, including himself, and yet
    his doubt helps him not, as it comes not from scepticism but from a
    divided will.

    Of all this Guildenstern and Rosencrantz realise nothing. They bow
    and smirk and smile, and what the one says the other echoes with
    sickliest intonation. When, at last, by means of the play within
    the play, and the puppets in their dalliance, Hamlet 'catches the
    conscience' of the King, and drives the wretched man in terror from
    his throne, Guildenstern and Rosencrantz see no more in his conduct
    than a rather painful breach of Court etiquette. That is as far as
    they can attain to in 'the contemplation of the spectacle of life
    with appropriate emotions.' They are close to his very secret and
    know nothing of it. Nor would there be any use in telling them.
    They are the little cups that can hold so much and no more.
    Towards the close it is suggested that, caught in a cunning spring
    set for another, they have met, or may meet, with a violent and
    sudden death. But a tragic ending of this kind, though touched by
    Hamlet's humour with something of the surprise and justice of
    comedy, is really not for such as they. They never die. Horatio,
    who in order to 'report Hamlet and his cause aright to the
    unsatisfied,'

    'Absents him from felicity a while,
    And in this harsh world draws his breath in pain,'

    dies, but Guildenstern and Rosencrantz are as immortal as Angelo
    and Tartuffe, and should rank with them. They are what modern life
    has contributed to the antique ideal of friendship. He who writes
    a new DE AMICITIA must find a niche for them, and praise them in
    Tusculan prose. They are types fixed for all time. To censure
    them would show 'a lack of appreciation.' They are merely out of
    their sphere: that is all. In sublimity of soul there is no
    contagion. High thoughts and high emotions are by their very
    existence isolated.

    I am to be released, if all goes well with me, towards the end of
    May, and hope to go at once to some little sea-side village abroad
    with R- and M-.

    The sea, as Euripides says in one of his plays about Iphigeneia,
    washes away the stains and wounds of the world.

    I hope to be at least a month with my friends, and to gain peace
    and balance, and a less troubled heart, and a sweeter mood. I have
    a strange longing for the great simple primeval things, such as the
    sea, to me no less of a mother than the Earth. It seems to me that
    we all look at Nature too much, and live with her too little. I
    discern great sanity in the Greek attitude. They never chattered
    about sunsets, or discussed whether the shadows on the grass were
    really mauve or not. But they saw that the sea was for the
    swimmer, and the sand for the feet of the runner. They loved the
    trees for the shadow that they cast, and the forest for its silence
    at noon. The vineyard-dresser wreathed his hair with ivy that he
    might keep off the rays of the sun as he stooped over the young
    shoots, and for the artist and the athlete, the two types that
    Greece gave us, they plaited with garlands the leaves of the bitter
    laurel and of the wild parsley, which else had been of no service
    to men.

    We call ours a utilitarian age, and we do not know the uses of any
    single thing. We have forgotten that water can cleanse, and fire
    purify, and that the Earth is mother to us all. As a consequence
    our art is of the moon and plays with shadows, while Greek art is
    of the sun and deals directly with things. I feel sure that in
    elemental forces there is purification, and I want to go back to
    them and live in their presence.

    Of course to one so modern as I am, 'Enfant de mon siecle,' merely
    to look at the world will be always lovely. I tremble with
    pleasure when I think that on the very day of my leaving prison
    both the laburnum and the lilac will be blooming in the gardens,
    and that I shall see the wind stir into restless beauty the swaying
    gold of the one, and make the other toss the pale purple of its
    plumes, so that all the air shall be Arabia for me. Linnaeus fell
    on his knees and wept for joy when he saw for the first time the
    long heath of some English upland made yellow with the tawny
    aromatic brooms of the common furze; and I know that for me, to
    whom flowers are part of desire, there are tears waiting in the
    petals of some rose. It has always been so with me from my
    boyhood. There is not a single colour hidden away in the chalice
    of a flower, or the curve of a shell, to which, by some subtle
    sympathy with the very soul of things, my nature does not answer.
    Like Gautier, I have always been one of those 'pour qui le monde
    visible existe.'

    Still, I am conscious now that behind all this beauty, satisfying
    though it may be, there is some spirit hidden of which the painted
    forms and shapes are but modes of manifestation, and it is with
    this spirit that I desire to become in harmony. I have grown tired
    of the articulate utterances of men and things. The Mystical in
    Art, the Mystical in Life, the Mystical in Nature this is what I am
    looking for. It is absolutely necessary for me to find it
    somewhere.

    All trials are trials for one's life, just as all sentences are
    sentences of death; and three times have I been tried. The first
    time I left the box to be arrested, the second time to be led back
    to the house of detention, the third time to pass into a prison for
    two years. Society, as we have constituted it, will have no place
    for me, has none to offer; but Nature, whose sweet rains fall on
    unjust and just alike, will have clefts in the rocks where I may
    hide, and secret valleys in whose silence I may weep undisturbed.
    She will hang the night with stars so that I may walk abroad in the
    darkness without stumbling, and send the wind over my footprints so
    that none may track me to my hurt: she will cleanse me in great
    waters, and with bitter herbs make me whole.
    If you're writing a De Profundis essay and need some advice, post your Oscar Wilde essay question on our Facebook page where fellow bookworms are always glad to help!

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