Oscar Fingal O'Flahertie Wills Wilde was born in Dublin, the son of an eye-surgeon and a literary hostess and writer (known under the pseudonym "Speranza"). After studying at Trinity College, Dublin, Wilde went to Magdalen College, Oxford, where he achieved a double first and won the Newdigate prize for a poem Ravenna.
While at Oxford he became notorious for his flamboyant wit, talent, charm and aestheticism, and this reputation soon won him a place in London society. Bunthorne, the Fleshly Poet in Gilbert and Sullivan's opera Patience was widely thought to be a caricature of Wilde (though in fact it was intended as a skit of Rosetti) and Wilde seems to have consciously styled himself on this figure.
In 1882 Wilde gave a one year lecture tour of America, visiting Paris in 1883 before ...
He was a literary genius. I enjoy his poetry immensely. Conspirative Nature stole his life prematurely.
Every person has some genius-ness in his cells... brain...hands or body... Needs the chance to appear Needs the luck... You have...I have As small as it can be Even very small It is still geniusty...!
His imagery and diction, everything is so extravagant and incredible. He will always remain as one of my favorites.
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He suffered a lot in jail, merely because of his sexual orientation. Today that is not a crime. I think the Wilde wrote carefully-structured stanzas, which are musical and memorable.
Her Voice
THE wild bee reels from bough to bough
With his furry coat and his gauzy wing.
Now in a lily-cup, and now
Setting a jacinth bell a-swing,
In his wandering;
Sit closer love: it was here I trow
I made that vow,
Swore that two lives should be like one
As long as the sea-gull loved the sea,
As long as the sunflower sought the sun,--
It shall be, I said, for eternity
'Twixt you and me!
Dear friend, those times are over and done,
Love's web is spun.
Look upward where the poplar trees
Sway and sway in the summer air,
Here in the valley never a breeze
Scatters the thistledown, but there
Great winds blow fair
From the mighty murmuring mystical seas,
And the wave-lashed leas.
Look upward where the white gull screams,
What does it see that we do not see?
Is that a star? or the lamp that gleams
On some outward voyaging argosy,--
Ah! can it be
We have lived our lives in a land of dreams!
How sad it seems.
Sweet, there is nothing left to say
But this, that love is never lost,
Keen winter stabs the breasts of May
Whose crimson roses burst his frost,
Ships tempest-tossed
Will find a harbour in some bay,
And so we may.
And there is nothing left to do
But to kiss once again, and part,
Nay, there is nothing we should rue,
I have my beauty,--you your Art,
Nay, do not start,
One world was not enough for two
Like me and you.
I always pass on good advice. It is the only thing to do with it. It is never of any use to oneself.
Only dull people are brilliant at breakfast.
No artist has ethical sympathies. An ethical sympathy in an artist is an unpardonable mannerism of style.
What is said of a man is nothing. The point is, who says it.
I was disappointed in Niagara—most people must be disappointed in Niagara. Every American bride is taken there, and the sight of the stupendous waterfall must be one of the earliest, if not the keenest, disappointments in American married life.
The basis of optimism is sheer terror.
The critic has to educate the public; the artist has to educate the critic.
Never speak disrespectfully of Society, Algernon. Only people who can't get into it do that.
A man who can dominate a London dinner table can dominate the world. The future belongs to the dandy. It is the exquisites who are going to rule.
Though one can dine in New York, one could not dwell there.
The Americans are certainly hero-worshippers, and always take their heroes from the criminal classes.
Children begin by loving their parents. After a time they judge them. Rarely, if ever, do they forgive them.
On the whole, the great success of marriage in the States is due partly to the fact that no American man is ever idle, and partly to the fact that no American wife is considered responsible for the quality of her husband's dinners.
The liar at any rate recognizes that recreation, not instruction, is the aim of conversation, and is a far more civilised being than the blockhead who loudly expresses his disbelief in a story which is told simply for the amusement of the company.
You should study the Peerage, Gerald. It is the one book a young man about town should know thoroughly, and it is the best thing in fiction the English have ever done.
Wilde cryptic word spinning to somewhere in nowhere. He was no genius, a bewildered poet who thought he was a genius. Did the poem liberate him or anyone from its cage of flowery words bespeckled with Greek gods and goddesses? I tend to doubt it. A love for his own intellect, displayful of a pruriant pride in pining.