DE PROFUNDIS. Oscar Wilde. An open letter

Dearest Mr. Wilde,

After giving it lots of tormented thought I have decided to write to you. I have just read your terrible long letter to Bosie, your Greek statue of alabaster, your little devil, the one who brought about your ruin. Your words, whatever mood they display, are exquisite, but on this occasion I must say I believe you use far too many, and even more numbers!

I can't forget you are in prison (weren’t you a prisoner handcuffed by your shallow blonde lover two years ago?), exhausted, full of bitterness and scorn. You are suffering incredibly, you are alone and estranged from everything that is beautiful to the senses and could alleviate your grief. You have had terrible losses: your reputation, your beautiful books and objects of decoration, your mother, your sons. You are weak and sorrowful now.

For two long years you have been waiting for a letter that never came, a single line would have been bliss to you. But the boy was busy enjoying life and had no time for you. He only wanted you on a pedestal, not ill, not fallen. You have experienced the greatest sorrow and would like to transmit that lesson to him, but why, why? He always caused you sorrow, but also joy, and you adore him. You needed someone like him to be yourself and meet your destiny. You know you’ll go back to him as soon as he snaps his fingers. Why reproach him once and again the awful wrongs he did to you? He was a spoilt brat and you knew it soon. He cared about no one but himself. He gave you nothing but orders: now I want money, now take me on a trip, pay for the best champagne for me and my friends, and you obeyed every time. There was nothing else you could do, for you loved him madly and his pleasure was your pleasure. Your time, your generosity, your care, your possessions, your genius were all for him and he took them as nothing, as if it was a right to him, and not once did he say thank you. He paid you back with his charm and this fascinated you, did it not? (Please, forgive my bluntness…).

I believe every single word you say and understand you deeply. We, your readers, don’t think you are trying to get even by ruining the boy’s reputation (he is doing a great job at it himself), we believe that you needed to have your say after such long silence and so many hours of loneliness filled with dark thoughts and memories. And (perhaps?) you were reminding him you were about to be free again and could meet him soon?

Your letter contains some delightful passages when you stop talking about the boy and write about Christ and sorrow and life and art. Artistic minds need to realize ideas to make them beautiful, you say. The boy helped you in this task, both in your art (although he never let you write when he was about and demanded all your attention), and in your life, where you wished to put your genius. In a way, we have to forgive the little scoundrel.

“The supreme vice is shallowness. Whatever is realized is right”.

Our deepest sympathy and admiration, Mr. Wilde.