PRISONS. Oscar Wilde

ELLMANN, Richard. Oscar Wilde. London: Penguin Books, 1987.                          
                        

We can but highly recommend a magnificent biography of Oscar Wilde by the author of other excellent biographies, such as Joyce’s: Oscar Wilde, by Richard Ellmann. Ellmann offers us his profound knowledge of Wilde with the utmost credibility, unaffected by his obvious devotion towards the writer and the person. The riches and precision of the vocabulary that he employs and the vast array of facts about Wilde’s work and life give the reader a sensation of following Wilde and even being an observer of his contradictions, delights, afflictions, and, what’s more important, of his development as a human being.

Ellmann starts every chapter with a quotation of Wilde’s words and after that provides us with a thorough display of details of his writings, life, relations, joys, and misfortunes. Under this light we confirm what we could glimpse when reading every one of his books, that Wilde was pure excess, just like life, and he could not be stopped by morals, even though these could (and did) crush him. “Though he offered himself as an apostle of pleasure, his created work contains much pain” (p. xiv).

[Oscar Wilde. Picture taken from http://www.quotezuki.com/author/oscar-wilde/page3]

He was the best company, witty and an unequalled conversationalist, always generous with his guests and acquaintances, lovers or even strangers. He didn’t receive the same token when he was accused of immorality and sent to prison. Most of his friends abandoned him and refused to help, and the few years he lived after being in jail he was ruined. He died in exile accompanied only by a couple of friends, Reggie Turner and especially Robert Ross, who never left him. His personality and his intelligence were not fit for the times, which were but rigid and hypocritical, and nothing was more alien to Wilde, whose passion for life was endless and could not possibly be hidden.

Life or art, what comes first? Both were irresistible for Wilde, but there can be no doubt when knowing him in such depth as Ellmann does: Life is generosity and splendor, but it comes second, as it can only imitate art, and only the latter can come near perfection and is a mirror to life. Art is the true creator, and only creators can shape life. This explains why Wilde was so careful with every detail, every word he chose, every garment he wore, his hair, his surroundings, his home and its decoration, etc. Everything had to be perfect, a work of art, for life deserves no less. Morality is only a constraint and limits the creator. Only intelligence and taste can prevail. That’s why he never confined himself to one specific faith or group (he played with the idea of becoming a Christian and joined masonry at the same time!). Why not taste them all? He had to be sent to prison by the society that he had exposed to put limits to his passion for life, and that killed him. We can imagine the suffering of such sensibility imprisoned. No blue china, no champagne, no books, no words, no air. A man of his delicacy could not survive the lack of beauty and the fetid air of jail. His purity was suicidal.

Alfred Douglas, "Bosie"

[ Image taken from http://arjelle.altervista.org/Tesine/Sara/deprofundis.htm]

“Essentially Wilde was conducting, in the most civilized way, an anatomy of his society, and a radical reconsideration of its ethics. He knew all the secrets and could expose all the pretense. Along with Blake and Nietzsche, he was proposing that good and evil are not what they seem, that moral tabs cannot cope with the complexity of behavior. His greatness as a writer is partly the result of the enlargement of sympathy which he demanded for society’s victims” (p. xiv). “We inherit his struggle to achieve supreme fictions in art, to associate art with social change, to bring together individual and social impulse, to save what is eccentric and singular from being sanitized and standardized, to replace a morality of severity by one of sympathy” (p. 553).

Wilde, we dare add, couldn’t possibly have had a more appropriate name and definitely honoured it, as Ellmann’s biography depicts with such precision and elegance.

The Picture of Dorian Gray (1891). Oscar Wilde (1854-1900)

WILDE, Oscar. The Picture of Dorian Gray. Included in: The Complete Oscar Wilde. New York: Book-of-the-Month Club, 1996.  

[Oscar Wilde by Toulouse- Lautrec]                

               What is Oscar Wilde’s proposal with this bewildering book? Which of the various possible visions of life does he emphasize? It’s not so easy to ascertain: he enquires into different possibilities through the three main characters, who are, as Richard Ellmann puts it in his biography of the writer, but refractions of his own personality. Oscar Wilde himself expressed it with these words: “Basil Hallward is what I think I am: Lord Henry what the world thinks me: Dorian is what I would like to be in other ages, perhaps” (p. 301).

                The picture of Dorian Gray is a delicate study of life and Art, what they have in common and what separates them. But, above all, the book conveys a deep and intense love for life only comparable to Nietzsche’s, definitely tinged with profound anguish. The conclusion we are left with is that life is a precious gift, like everything it has to offer, although it often brings pain and unbearable sorrow.  It is full of wonders, pleasures, subtleties and sublime delights, though often there is a high price to pay for them. We could say it has an inescapable fatal attraction which lures us constantly to taste it.

                While reading this book, my mind wandered to Lampedusa and his The Leopard, equally full of love for life. Sicilian nobleman Don Fabrizio Corbera’s passion for life dominates the story, even though his whole world is disintegrating around him and he is becoming an old man. He now can’t enjoy all the pleasures any more but rejoices that his nephew, Tancredi, follows his path and exploits the pleasures of life with eagerness. The scene in which the young man and his beautiful fiancée chase each other around the huge mansion while discovering unimagined rooms, hidden corridors and closets is but a chant to life, beauty and youth.

[The Demoiselles d’Avignon by Picasso. 1907]

                         We find the same agonic hunger for life in The Portrait of Dorian Gray. There is no happy ending in this book, either, as one should expect. It is the process of living that is emphasized from an aesthetic point of view: no morals should interfere in wandering through life. Only the senses lead Dorian Grey and his mentor Lord Henry Wottom in search for beauty and its exquisite delights. Basil Hallward, the painter, has the opposite view: there are inner rules, certain actions are not acceptable, and there are moral principles. He strongly disagrees with his friends’ anarchic lifestyles and feels great sorrow for his beloved Dorian, who has chosen to follow Lord Henry’s cynical teachings.

                Around this triangle Oscar Wilde analyses many other aspects that give this book its full complexity and subtlety, for things are never as easy as they seem. Art surrounds the characters and their lives. All three are sensitive educated men. But we should say that there is one other protagonist: the perfect picture that Basil made of Dorian, a work of art, which remains hidden and unseen, but which seems to have a life of its own: it represents Dorian’s conscience, his soul, an ugly looking one which displays the horrid image of his actions and grows old and sinister-looking while Dorian continues being eternally young, graceful and handsome, a pleasure to everybody’s eyes. All those who meet him are fond of him and admire his fine looks and style. He doesn’t need to make great efforts, everything is granted to him. But he knows, and we know, that his real face is quite another, the one shown in the portrait, which tells of his sinful self-centered life in which there are even crimes: he kills a man, causes others to commit suicide or brings ruin to their lives. What do I care, why should this affect me, he asks himself once and again. But something bothers him constantly: the portrait, the evidence of his inner ugliness. He can’t stand looking at it, it is a mirror of his cruelty and selfishness, as well as his beauty.

 [Narcissus by Caravaggio]

                  Life must be lived to the fullest, drunk till the very last drop, Wilde seems to tell us through Lord Henry and Dorian or… maybe not? There is art, there is beauty, pleasures for the senses. But could it be that something else hides behind? Basil tells us there is more, something even more important: conscience.  However, his position offers doubts: he is in love with Dorian, who prefers Lord Henry’s company and guidance. Could Basil be jealous, maybe? And some of Lord Wottom’s mischievous comments linger in our minds: perhaps Basil is not intelligent and strong enough to enjoy life and simply stays away and can’t do much more than reflect it in his paintings. Another possibility is that he feels he shouldn’t dare touch (stain?) beauty and perfection, that he chooses not to mar it, precisely what he had in mind for Dorian.

               Both Lord Wottom (meaningful name, which sounds like “bottom”, the deepest and darkest parts) and Basil are fascinated by Dorian’s grace and beauty. Both decide to take on his education and for both it is a sort of experiment, a game perhaps. It is definitely so for Henry, who takes everything in life lightly, as a mere amusement.  Basil seems to take things more seriously and respectfully. He would never lay hands on Dorian, he just wishes to protect him and leave his perfect grace unaltered.

                But, can this possibly be done? Basil’s acts certainly have an effect: he paints the terrible picture which changes Dorian’s life forever; he is even responsible of Lord Wottom and Dorian’s acquaintance, for they met in his house (though this, too, he tried to avoid, well aware of the impact that Wottom could have on the young man). His worst fears came true: immediately Dorian was lured by Wottom’s influence and practically forgot about Basil. Years later, Dorian would tell Basil that only he could have saved him, but this never happened. His nature and his curiosity led him astray. It couldn’t possibly be otherwise.

[Decalcomania by Magritte. 1966]

                Isn’t this what life is all about? One has to follow his own path, Nietzsche was writing at about the same time. Life cannot stay still. Life is change, it’s renewal, it’s enquiry. And it involves “marring” (probably the word that Wilde repeats most frequently throughout the book), which implies getting old, losing one’s freshness and strength, making a lot of mistakes and learning, rejoicing and suffering during the process.  Beauty must be enjoyed before it fades, even if this causes it to wither, Wilde seems to say.

                Dorian Gray’s name is full of meaning: gold becomes grey, and loses its shine and splendour. Not even Art can prevent that. Nor a Faustian pact with forces of the dark. Life is more powerful than all.

“Beautiful things mean only Beauty”.

“All art is quite useless”, wrote Oscar Wilde in his preface (p. 11).

Art is but a pleasure of the spirit, we could add, one more of the pleasures life has to offer. Of course it, too, can influence and alter minds, just like both Lord Wottom and Dorian were changed after reading a book.

I put all my genius into my life; I put only my talent into my works. (Oscar Wilde to Gide).

Pantaleón y Las Visitadoras o El Fiel Funcionario

     

   Con un estilo sorprendente, lleno de agilidad y riqueza léxica, Vargas Llosa nos deslumbra con la historia de Pantaleón Pantoja, el leal y honrado capitán del ejército peruano a quien sus superiores encomiendan una extraña misión: la de proporcionar prostitutas a los soldados de los múltiples puestos militares diseminados por el Amazonas, para poner fin a la oleada de violaciones que se suceden por la escasez de mujeres. Pantaleón cuenta con recursos y medios proporcionados por el ejército, pero no deberá vestir su uniforme militar, pues su labor ha de ser clandestina...

    La tarea no es muy del agrado de Pantaleón, quien sin embargo se entrega a ella en cuerpo y alma y, haciendo gala de gran eficiencia, consigue que el servicio de visitadoras sea todo un éxito: recluta y ‘cata’ mujeres (por puro celo profesional), elabora minuciosos informes de previsiones y resultados, supervisa el trabajo de las prostitutas, vela por su seguridad y salud, en definitiva, no deja un cabo suelto. Y todo ello con la mayor seriedad y el máximo respeto hacia sus ‘colaboradoras’. Así, en sus detallados informes a la superioridad, da cuenta, en grandilocuente tono oficial, de los resultados de sus meticulosas indagaciones acerca de las necesidades sexuales de la soldadesca. Provoca hilaridad la solemnidad de su estilo en contraste con lo burdo del asunto que le ocupa. Así, denomina “usuarios” a los soldados que solicitan sexo, “prestación” al acto sexual, “ambición” al deseo requerido, “convoyes” a los grupos de prostitutas que parten a trabajar en los cuarteles.

     

    Pero su gran entrega no sólo le depara éxitos: algunos de sus superiores no están de acuerdo con la existencia del servicio de visitadoras, al que consideran una vergüenza para el ejército. Tampoco los vecinos de la zona lo consideran algo edificante. Ni el sacerdote militar, el padre Beltrán, que llega a abandonar el ejército por este motivo. Incluso los medios de comunicación le atacan: el popular locutor de radio Sinchi lanza diatribas en su contra, inflamando aún más a la población de Iquitos (hasta que obtiene, eso sí, un buen precio por su silencio). Pero a todos ellos, incluido el sacerdote, los vemos disfrutar de los servicios de las prostitutas en las últimas páginas del libro.

    Inmune a críticas y odios, Pantaleón prosigue con su labor (hasta cuenta con un himno y colores distintivos) y la demanda aumenta de tal manera que desborda toda previsión. También los suboficiales y oficiales reclaman ser atendidos por las visitadoras, y la población civil considera que deberían contar con el mismo derecho. Esto provoca algunos conflictos e intentos de ataque a los convoyes de mujeres. Pero la constante supervisión de Pantaleón va resolviendo todos los problemas y el servicio se va ampliando continuamente.

   Una de las nuevas visitadoras, la tentadora Brasileña, consigue atraer a Pantaleón, el incorruptible y siempre fiel Pantaleón, que se ve irremisiblemente cegado por sus encantos. Esto hace que su mujer, Pochita, lo abandone y se lleve a la hija que acaban de tener. Y esta es la única mancha en el impecable historial de Pantaleón, su única vergüenza: la atracción que siente por la Brasileña le hace restringir al mínimo las ‘prestaciones’ de aquélla a los soldados, privilegio que reconoce vergonzoso porque sabe, además, que es la preferida por todos.

   Al tiempo que florece el servicio de visitadoras, en la zona del Amazonas prolifera la fe ciega hacia el hermano Francisco y su Hermandad del Arca, un creciente ejército de fanáticos devotos de la cruz, que llegan a crucificar alguna pobre víctima que luego les sirve de mártir para su causa. Casi todas las prostitutas, muchos soldados y hasta la señora Leonor, madre de Panta, se suman a la secta, que se extiende entre la población como una mancha de aceite.

     La historia avanza mediante una amplia variedad de recursos que Vargas Llosa nos ofrece con maestría: artículos de periódico, cartas, informes, locuciones radiofónicas, un sinfín de materiales que aportan gran agilidad y variedad estilística a la obra. Es interesante el singular empleo de los diálogos: el autor alterna y mezcla diálogos que transcurren en lugares distintos e incluso en momentos diferentes, saltando de uno a otro sin que en ningún momento perdamos el hilo. Hace avanzar la trama con soltura mediante comentarios que, en apariencia, acompañarían a los diálogos, pero que en realidad nos transportan a otro lugar u otro momento de la historia. Salta en el tiempo y en el espacio. Así, hacia el final de la obra, nos desvela con habilidad el futuro de cada visitadora intercalándolo entre los diálogos del protagonista, y desarrolla tres hilos narrativos simultáneamente: la despedida de Pantaleón de Iquitos, el fin del hermano Francisco y el futuro de cada visitadora, todo ello aquí y allá a modo de salpicaduras inesperadas entre los diálogos de Pantaleón con su madre, sus colaboradores o sus superiores.

     El desenlace de la historia es desolador: un grupo de hombres ataca uno de los convoyes de mujeres y la Brasileña muere al recibir un tiro en la refriega. Pantaleón organiza un ceremonioso funeral en su honor y lee una sentida elegía enfundado en su uniforme. Aquellos honores oficiales, que han puesto en evidencia al ejército,  desatan las iras de sus superiores, que inmediatamente desmantelan el servicio de visitadoras e invitan a Pantaleón a abandonar el ejército. Ante su negativa, lo envían a un remoto destino (donde su mujer, Pochita, vuelve a reunirse con él).

      Su final coincide con el del lunático hermano Francisco, quien, a punto de ser prendido por la justicia, se hace crucificar por sus seguidores.

      Algo de lunático, quizás, tiene también Pantaleón por su ‘extrema’ forma de actuar: su impecable trabajo, su seriedad absoluta, su total carencia de dobleces, su increíble honestidad (es incorruptible), su incapacidad para desplegar la doble moral de sus superiores y convecinos, que le reprochan su labor al tiempo que desean beneficiarse de ella a toda costa.

      Pantaleón se sale de lo común, como observa uno de los oficiales que, tras haberle encomendado aquella tarea, al final le da la espalda: “Todavía no descubro si es usted un pelotudo angelical o un cínico de la gran flauta” (p.305). Un “bicho raro”, concluye. El único capaz de sacar adelante con tal dignidad una tarea tan innoble. 

WILDE. Película de Brian Gilbert.

Caricatura de Keller aparecida en Wasp (San Francisco, 1882).

Es Ellmann y no lo es, como una película es y no es un libro aunque ambos traten del mismo asunto. La elección de los actores es soberbia (Stephen Fry es un Wilde totalmente creíble en su aspecto y su expresión), Jude Law borda su papel personificando a Bosie,  el padre de Bosie (el Marqués de Queensberry) se nos muestra como el perfecto bruto, títulos nobiliarios mediante. Así lo leímos en Ellmann.

Las imágenes de la película acercan a nuestros sentidos a un Wilde atrapado, entregado, ¿sorprendido?, aplastado entre dos fuerzas animales: la sensualidad de su amante, Bosie, malcriado efebo que le ciega, y el padre de éste, brutal fuerza de la naturaleza y amante, sólo, de su fuerza y su poder. Ni todo el encanto y delicadeza de Wilde consiguen apaciguar su furia, la del padre avasallado por el perverso sodomita. Perfecto sodomita, que consigue encandilar con sus palabras al ofendido padre durante una prolongada cena. Pero, ay, no hay  encuentro posible. Son fuerzas encontradas, la delicadeza, la sutileza, la belleza, la sensualidad, el ingenio, el candor inteligente frente a la más pura animalidad.

Wilde se desvive por vivir sin corsés, en el puro exceso de escanciar cada sorbo de vida sin mesura. Pero naturalezas más fuertes se le oponen y consiguen aplastarlo.

Óscar y su hermano Willie.

     

La película recorre apresuradamente la vida de un Wilde que apuraba la vida. Quizás el problema estriba en que Wilde, además de respirar, paladeaba cada instante y lo que cada instante le ofrecía, placer o pesar, siempre sin mesura, nunca sin plena conciencia. No podía ser fácil recoger en unas cuantas imágenes una vida que se rebosaba. Sin embargo, y a pesar de la necesaria música de fondo que marca los momentos estelares (por si algún espectador despistado…), el film se ve con agrado, con el agrado de recordar a un personaje singular, aunque por el camino se pierdan la profundidad, el verdadero Wilde, a quien con Ellmann sí conseguimos intuir. Nos llegan amagos de sus gestos (siempre excesivos, como los del payaso bajo las luces, frente al público que le da la vida), nos faltan su porcelana azul y su clavel verde, nos llegan ecos de sus punzantes palabras, pero echamos de menos detalles acerca de su obra, su transformación,  sus amistades y enemistades, sus éxitos, sus fracasos, la decepción.

No creo que Wilde buscase la perdición, pienso más bien que deseaba conocer y disfrutar de cada extremo y cada posibilidad  sin cortapisas morales, sin limitaciones, pero nació, quizás, fuera de tiempo, unos 2.000 años tarde y en el lugar equivocado.  

Wilde vestido de griego.