It is a amazing how one man can ignite in you feelings of such different spectrums.

Oscar Wilde is a man I love to love and yet a man I love to hate.

I love him for his talent, genius and wit—displaced or not. If one would ever describe the highest literary work as having gold on every page, this is man that could boast of bearing gold out of his mouth! He is so extremely quotable and noteworthy (imagine this:

Lord Douglas senior: You are in the gutter and you are dragging my son along as well!

Wilde: [without missing a beat]We are all in the gutter sir, but some of us are looking up at the stars.) that it would be a lifelong entertainment to converse with him for a lifetime.

And how quoteworthy yet how detestable is this: I put my genius into my life, only my talent into my writing. Indeed what a genius is this man as to live a tragedy out of his very life. Perhaps it is most un-genius of him to put his genius into his life. A play bears editing and revision, but one’s life could not. Our lives are not just merely plays or dramas or (horrors of horrors) manifestations of mere wit. Our lives are testament to our existence and it is our lives that we take away even if it is our works that we leave behind. Selfish it may seem, but I would want to take away something beautiful—not just for a singular moment—but for a lifetime. I want to lead a life worthy of living and worthy of God (religious contentions are to be minimised considering that no one could charge Wilde on this very basis). And so for the timebeing, I would only put my genius (should I ever have one) into a blogpost.

On a scale of one to ten, I love Wilde at eleven.

And I hate Wilde at eleven too.

Perhaps it is a relief that they are not at five and a half each.

With such convoluted(‘s the word) mindsets should I proceed to write my Literarture essay assignment on his life.

Labels: The Mind