I'm always a little extra happy when I see a post in facebook that says something in the lines of "join us in wishing Oscar Wilde a happy birthday". That day I'm happy that he was born, I'm happy that I discovered him. He makes me fall in love with beauty, he takes me into the garden of Basil Hallward, the blessed garden with the flowers, the leaves, the sunlight and with Dorian. Dorian, the Adonis.
Years have gone by since the first time I was at the garden, since the first time I saw Dorian drinking the scent of some flower and getting doe-eyed listening to Henry Wotton. But the garden is still alive, and like Dorian, it is unspoiled, beautiful and youthful.
I know the garden, with all its beauty and charm, is not real, and I know Dorian, with all his beauty and charm, is not real. But there are times, especially when immersed in Wilde Words, where reality is just an extension of the imagination and where fact gives way to fiction to find 'beautiful meanings in beautiful things'.
In this quest, I look out the student's window where the little nightingale is draining its heart's blood into the red rose, I watch Hugie sulk in his walk after his extravagance and his charming scolding, and, I look into the broken leaden heart of the happy prince. The tragic beauty, or, is it comic? How dreadful of me to even suggest that!!!
But it is just simple, plain, pure beauty, one that cannot be spoiled, cannot be adulterated.
And in the end, I will always be fond of him, he represents to me all the sins I never had the courage to commit.
Years have gone by since the first time I was at the garden, since the first time I saw Dorian drinking the scent of some flower and getting doe-eyed listening to Henry Wotton. But the garden is still alive, and like Dorian, it is unspoiled, beautiful and youthful.
I know the garden, with all its beauty and charm, is not real, and I know Dorian, with all his beauty and charm, is not real. But there are times, especially when immersed in Wilde Words, where reality is just an extension of the imagination and where fact gives way to fiction to find 'beautiful meanings in beautiful things'.
In this quest, I look out the student's window where the little nightingale is draining its heart's blood into the red rose, I watch Hugie sulk in his walk after his extravagance and his charming scolding, and, I look into the broken leaden heart of the happy prince. The tragic beauty, or, is it comic? How dreadful of me to even suggest that!!!
But it is just simple, plain, pure beauty, one that cannot be spoiled, cannot be adulterated.
And in the end, I will always be fond of him, he represents to me all the sins I never had the courage to commit.
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