Oscar Wilde’s admirers might hold the superlative for the most touching display of affection in history. About a decade ago Wilde’s tomb in Paris was restored and reopened for public viewings. It now has a barrier to protect it from devotees because the stonework had been tarnished, to the extent of being “irreplaceably damaged” according to French authorities, since the memorial had been kissed so much by visitors. This is commonly known by those who love his work, but can be perplexing for those who know a bit more about the playwright himself.
Although London was Wilde’s adult playground and his remains are buried in Paris, his monument in his country of birth is right across from the street of his childhood home in Dublin. I visited the memorial sculpture for the first time recently. It’s an extraordinary commemoration. It took the Irish nearly a full century to suggest that a dedication was in order, likely due to the spoiled family name. The paradoxes of his life are displayed in earnest, if you will, by the collection of three statues in Merrion Square.
Oscar is perched on a rock from the Wicklow mountains with the strangest grin on his face. At first I thought the artist had never really seen anyone give a sideways smirk before, but there’s more to it. One cannot enter to view the main statue from straight on. You have to approach from either the left or right. Thus, you either first see the disturbed frown or the cheeky grin. Only when you stand directly in front do you get the full dichotomy of his expression. Oscar lived a Janus-faced existence. His wife, Constance, was the tragic character on the receiving end of Wilde’s decadentism, a term employed by Max Nordau in his 1892 book Entartung. He saw Wilde as the chief representative of a cultural wave of megalomania in the late nineteenth century. Wilde indeed pursued pleasure, most famously with the young French aristocrat Lord Alfred Douglas, which landed him in Reading Gaol for a couple years since homosexuality was criminalized in England. His first homosexual encounter occurred when his wife was around six months pregnant with their second child, which is why the second statue in the park, atop a plinth, is Constance (who later changed her surname to Holland to avoid further humiliation). She’s kneeling, naked, and holding her pregnant belly. She’s looking over at Oscar, who is looking beyond her gaze. The final part of the trinity is the torso of Dionysus. Constance’s footstall represents the pillar of Life whereas the one with Dionysus represents Art. Engraved on each are various quotations by Wilde, all chosen by prominent Irish figures. Most of the visitors would stop at these pillars and crane their necks to read the wisdom offered by the writer known for his witty paradoxes. Wilde’s judgments are typically sweeping but that’s what makes them so attractive. Epigrams are interesting to muse over, which is what I thought I would do here since Wilde appears to have written many that still endure.
“Only dull people are brilliant at breakfast.”
Wilde had a consistent habit of, let’s say, being in an intoxicated state, which would most likely only suspend during breakfast. I don’t really know where breakfast stands in the present cultural milieu. Many people I know don’t really have a full meal to start the day, or any food at all. It seems to be more important to immediately exercise or work. But Wilde’s luxurious lifestyle certainly called for a nice spread to aid the hangovers. It has been reported that during one stretch of time, Wilde spent nearly £200,000 on room service at The Savoy in London for himself and his lover Bosie (the nickname for the Frenchman previously mentioned), who both had their own rooms.
But I think I know why he might have thought that bright-eyed individuals, already washed and rejuvenated from a long rest, might be considered dull. It is because they did nothing the previous night. It is not merely that they weren’t drunk like him, but because they chose sleep over anything else. The night is interesting to Wilde. Now, unfortunately we cannot all be inviting persecution for our promiscuousness by cheating on our wives with 21 year old French darlings. We can’t all be that interesting. Nevertheless, most of life is lived at night. It is when we pursue our desires. This view, of course, can be easily flipped to argue that what one does during the day is actually most significant. But that’s the preference here. Either you care more about the typically structured sunlit hours where society tries to look like a polished machine of commerce, or you care more about the evening, where the allowed freedom is considerably more revealing about who we really are. For Wilde, as he imbibed the many flavors of London’s social life, he showed his fondness for what happens under the moon.
Additionally, breakfast is a meal difficult to place. It can be instrumental; merely fuel for the day. It can be eaten while already mobile on the way to work. Rarely is it a large social occasion. Generally, though, breakfast seems to be dictated by the night. If you slept alone, you will probably eat alone. If you were out late, you might skip the meal altogether. All in all, breakfast is not the meal where you need to be brilliant. Wilde would agree—that’s not his point. It’s that you if are brilliant at breakfast, you were probably dull at dinner.
“Whenever people agree with me I always feel I must be wrong.”
This one was chosen by the artist of the memorial itself, Danny Osborne. Initially this suggests Wilde was stubborn and insatiable. Most likely true. I wonder if he would stand by this sentiment in regard to matters of taste, especially when he was the subject at hand, since crowds and critics assembled frequently to view his plays. Were they wrong to like them? I do not think Wilde disliked his own work, but I could be wrong.
However, I think the former quote is more about 1) a desire to be unique, and 2) a default position of doubt towards the masses. We will take them in turn. I cannot resist the temptation to register my discontent with the colloquial use of the term unique. Whenever someone encounters a work of art, a place, or even a person who appears to have escaped being bred in the conformist factory, they typically employ the word with an adverb ahead of it. “That was extremely unique!” or “She’s so unique, isn’t she?” Nothing can be very unique; the word means that the object stands alone as the only one of its kind. I wish this oversight did not bother me. But, alas. Perhaps now it will bother you, too. Anyway, it is reasonable to say that Wilde was one of the first figures to engage in a unique lifestyle—even though it was full of debauchery—that inspired others to see what these “aesthetes” were all about. I once remember reading something that Wilde said about his novel The Picture of Dorian Gray to suggest that his main character, despite his flaws, resembles his own idealism the most. We can probably take Wilde at his word here.
The other point has to do with disagreement. It might seem backwards to immediately recoil at one’s belief if it is validated from others. I understand those of you who might think this is sheer twaddle and obviously an incorrect instinct. Nevertheless, it gestures at a mindset, that, for whatever reason, feels like an immutable brain setting. I happen to know because I am also plagued with it. Perhaps time will do its thing and I will eventually be liberated from this intuition, but it is affirming to know Wilde also suffered from the same disease. Essentially, the idea is that a curious sense of being wrong strikes whenever you share a majority opinion. Allow me to shamelessly make an argument from authority, since we are discussing quotations, and mention some of the others who share this view (and have one-liners you can look up). George Bernard Shaw, Mark Twain, and Martin Luther King Jr. all cared about minority opinions and observed that progress depends on them. MLK said: “Almost always, the creative dedicated minority has made the world better”.
In England, Wilde’s love for Lord Alfred was forbidden then but would not be now. Wilde wrote a love letter from prison to the man he adored called De Profundis which is widely regarded as one of the best love letters ever penned. Now, nobody in the West has to write about the universal feelings of love from behind bars. Wilde’s hesitation around consensus points to the fact that majority opinions are most likely in need of a revision or upgrade. Progress depends on the desire to continuously improve the nature of things, converge on the truth, and to constantly question the status quo. Only from the perspective of the minority can this be achieved.