selected prose of oscar wilde-第18节

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within　us　we　should　seek　to　live。　　At　any　rate　you　will　read　those

parts　of　my　letter　with　less　pain　than　the　others。　　Of　course　I　need

not　remind　you　how　fluid　a　thing　thought　is　with　mewith　us　all

and　of　what　an　evanescent　substance　are　our　emotions　made。　　Still　I

do　see　a　sort　of　possible　goal　towards　which；　through　art；　I　may

progress。　　It　is　not　unlikely　that　you　may　help　me。



As　regards　the　mode　of　copying：　　of　course　it　is　too　long　for　any

amanuensis　to　attempt：　　and　your　own　handwriting；　dear　Robbie；　in

your　last　letter　seems　specially　designed　to　remind　me　that　the　task

is　not　to　be　yours。　　I　think　that　the　only　thing　to　do　is　to　be

thoroughly　modern　and　to　have　it　typewritten。　　Of　course　the　MS。

should　not　pass　out　of　your　control；　but　could　you　not　get　Mrs。

Marshall　to　send　down　one　of　her　type…writing　girlswomen　are　the

most　reliable　as　they　have　no　memory　for　the　importantto　Hornton

Street　or　Phillimore　Gardens；　to　do　it　under　your　supervision？　　I

assure　you　that　the　typewriting　machine；　when　played　with

expression；　is　not　more　annoying　than　the　piano　when　played　by　a

sister　or　near　relation。　　Indeed　many　among　those　most　devoted　to

domesticity　prefer　it。　　I　wish　the　copy　to　be　done　not　on　tissue

paper　but　on　good　paper　such　as　is　used　for　plays；　and　a　wide

rubricated　margin　should　be　left　for　corrections　。　。　。　If　the　copy

is　done　at　Hornton　Street　the　lady　typewriter　might　be　fed　through　a

lattice　in　the　door；　like　the　Cardinals　when　they　elect　a　Pope；　till

she　comes　out　on　the　balcony　and　can　say　to　the　world：　　〃Habet

Mundus　Epistolam〃；　for　indeed　it　is　an　Encyclical　letter；　and　as　the

Bulls　of　the　Holy　Father　are　named　from　their　opening　words；　it　may

be　spoken　of　as　the　〃Epistola：　　in　Carcere　et　Vinculis。〃　。　。　。　In

point　of　fact；　Robbie；　prison　life　makes　one　see　people　and　things

as　they　really　are。　　That　is　why　it　turns　one　to　stone。　　It　is　the

people　outside　who　are　deceived　by　the　illusions　of　a　life　in

constant　motion。　　They　revolve　with　life　and　contribute　to　its

unreality。　　We　who　are　immobile　both　see　and　know。　　Whether　or　not

the　letter　does　good　to　narrow　natures　and　hectic　brains；　to　me　it

has　done　good。　　I　have　〃cleansed　my　bosom　of　much　perilous　stuff〃；

to　borrow　a　phrase　from　the　poet　whom　you　and　I　once　thought　of

rescuing　from　the　Philistines。　　I　need　not　remind　you　that　mere

expression　is　to　an　artist　the　supreme　and　only　mode　of　life。　　It　is

by　utterance　that　we　live。　　Of　the　many；　many　things　for　which　I

have　to　thank　the　Governor　there　is　none　for　which　I　am　more

grateful　than　for　his　permission　to　write　fully　and　at　as　great　a

length　as　I　desire。　　For　nearly　two　years　I　had　within　a　growing

burden　of　bitterness；　of　much　of　which　I　have　now　got　rid。　　On　the

other　side　of　the　prison　wall　there　are　some　poor　black　soot…

besmirched　trees　that　are　just　breaking　out　into　buds　of　an　almost

shrill　green。　　I　know　quite　well　what　they　are　going　through。　　They

are　finding　expression。



Ever　yours；



OSCAR。



…　Letter　from　Reading　Prison　to　Robert　Ross。







CAREY　STREET







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。De　Profundis







SORROW　WEARS　NO　MASK







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。De　Profundis







VITA　NUOVA







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