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selected prose of oscar wilde-第23章

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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
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