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that there should be no bitterness or hate on either side。
Of course I know that from one point of view things will be made
different for me than for others； must indeed； by the very nature
of the case； be made so。 The poor thieves and outcasts who are
imprisoned here with me are in many respects more fortunate than I
am。 The little way in grey city or green field that saw their sin
is small； to find those who know nothing of what they have done
they need go no further than a bird might fly between the twilight
and the dawn； but for me the world is shrivelled to a handsbreadth；
and everywhere I turn my name is written on the rocks in lead。 For
I have come； not from obscurity into the momentary notoriety of
crime； but from a sort of eternity of fame to a sort of eternity of
infamy； and sometimes seem to myself to have shown； if indeed it
required showing； that between the famous and the infamous there is
but one step； if as much as one。
Still； in the very fact that people will recognise me wherever I
go； and know all about my life； as far as its follies go； I can
discern something good for me。 It will force on me the necessity
of again asserting myself as an artist； and as soon as I possibly
can。 If I can produce only one beautiful work of art I shall be
able to rob malice of its venom； and cowardice of its sneer； and to
pluck out the tongue of scorn by the roots。
And if life be； as it surely is； a problem to me； I am no less a
problem to life。 People must adopt some attitude towards me； and
so pass judgment； both on themselves and me。 I need not say I am
not talking of particular individuals。 The only people I would
care to be with now are artists and people who have suffered：
those who know what beauty is； and those who know what sorrow is：
nobody else interests me。 Nor am I making any demands on life。 In
all that I have said I am simply concerned with my own mental
attitude towards life as a whole； and I feel that not to be ashamed
of having been punished is one of the first points I must attain
to； for the sake of my own perfection； and because I am so
imperfect。
Then I must learn how to be happy。 Once I knew it； or thought I
knew it； by instinct。 It was always springtime once in my heart。
My temperament was akin to joy。 I filled my life to the very brim
with pleasure； as one might fill a cup to the very brim with wine。
Now I am approaching life from a completely new standpoint； and
even to conceive happiness is often extremely difficult for me。 I
remember during my first term at Oxford reading in Pater's
RENAISSANCE … that book which has had such strange influence over
my life … how Dante places low in the Inferno those who wilfully
live in sadness； and going to the college library and turning to
the passage in the DIVINE COMEDY where beneath the dreary marsh lie
those who were 'sullen in the sweet air；' saying for ever and ever
through their sighs …
'Tristi fummo
Nell aer dolce che dal sol s'allegra。'
I knew the church condemned ACCIDIA； but the whole idea seemed to
me quite fantastic； just the sort of sin； I fancied； a priest who
knew nothing about real life would invent。 Nor could I understand
how Dante； who says that 'sorrow remarries us to God；' could have
been so harsh to those who were enamoured of melancholy； if any
such there really were。 I had no idea that some day this would
become to me one of the greatest temptations of my life。
While I was in Wandsworth prison I longed to die。 It was my one
desire。 When after two months in the infirmary I was transferred
here； and found myself growing gradually better in physical health；
I was filled with rage。 I determined to commit suicide on the very
day on which I left prison。 After a time that evil mood passed
away； and I made up my mind to live； but to wear gloom as a king
wears purple： never to smile again： to turn whatever house I
entered into a house of mourning： to make my friends walk slowly
in sadness with me： to teach them that melancholy is the true
secret of life： to maim them with an alien sorrow： to mar them
with my own pain。 Now I feel quite differently。 I see it would be
both ungrateful and unkind of me to pull so long a face that when
my friends came to see me they would have to make their faces still
longer in order to show their sympathy； or； if I desired to
entertain them； to invite them to sit down silently to bitter herbs
and funeral baked meats。 I must learn how to be cheerful and
happy。
The last two occasions on which I was allowed to see my friends
here； I tried to be as cheerful as possible； and to show my
cheerfulness； in order to make them some slight return for their
trouble in coming all the way from town to see me。 It is only a
slight return； I know； but it is the one； I feel certain； that
pleases them most。 I saw R… for an hour on Saturday week； and I
tried to give the fullest possible expression of the delight I
really felt at our meeting。 And that； in the views and ideas I am
here shaping for myself； I am quite right is shown to me by the
fact that now for the first time since my imprisonment I have a
real desire for life。
There is before me so much to do； that I would regard it as a
terrible tragedy if I died before I was allowed to complete at any
rate a little of it。 I see new developments in art and life； each
one of which is a fresh mode of perfection。 I long to live so that
I can explore what is no less than a new world to me。 Do you want
to know what this new world is？ I think you can guess what it is。
It is the world in which I have been living。 Sorrow； then； and all
that it teaches one； is my new world。
I used to live entirely for pleasure。 I shunned suffering and
sorrow of every kind。 I hated both。 I resolved to ignore them as
far as possible： to treat them； that is to say； as modes of
imperfection。 They were not part of my scheme of life。 They had
no place in my philosophy。 My mother； who knew life as a whole；
used often to quote to me Goethe's lines … written by Carlyle in a
book he had given her years ago； and translated by him； I fancy；
also：…
'Who never ate his bread in sorrow；
Who never spent the midnight hours
Weeping and waiting for the morrow； …
He knows you not； ye heavenly powers。'
They were the lines which that noble Queen of Prussia； whom
Napoleon treated with such coarse brutality； used to quote in her
humiliation and exile； they were the lines my mother often quoted
in the troubles of her later life。 I absolutely declined to accept
or admit the enormous truth hidden in them。 I could not understand
it。 I remember quite well how I used to tell her that I did not
want to eat my bread in sorrow； or to pass any night weeping and
watching for a more bitter dawn。
I had no idea that i