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De Profundis
by Oscar Wilde
。 。 。 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