A compilation of letters authored by Oscar Wilde to his secret lover, Lord Alfred Douglas.

Among those who suffered the cruelties of our regrettable history, Oscar Wilde stands out as one of the most tragic figures of modernity. He endured multiple imprisonments for the 'crime' of homosexuality, faced financial ruin and exile, and met an untimely end. Yet, one of Wilde's most 'sinful' attributes-his remarkable capacity for intense, profound love-remains one of the most poetic aspects of his life.

In June 1891, Wilde crossed paths with Lord Alfred "Bosie" Douglas, a 21-year-old Oxford student and talented poet. Bosie would become the author's very own Dorian Gray-a source of inspiration, an intellectual partner, and a passionate lover.

[ November 1892 ]

• ❝ Dearest Bosie ... I should awfully like to go away with you somewhere where it is hot and coloured. ❞

───

[ January 1893 ]

• ❝ My Own Boy,

Your sonnet is quite lovely, and it is a marvel that those red rose-leaf lips of yours should be made no less for the madness of music and song than for the madness of kissing. Your slim gilt soul walks between passion and poetry. I know Hyacinthus, whom Apollo loved so madly, was you in Greek days.

Why are you alone in London, and when do you go to Salisbury? Do go there to cool your hands in the grey twilight of Gothic things, and come here whenever you like. It is a lovely place and lacks only you; but go to Salisbury first.

Always, with undying love, yours,

Oscar. ❞

───

[ March 1893 ]

• ❝ Dearest of All Boys - Your letter was delightful - red and yellow wine to me - but I am sad and out of sorts - Bosie - you must not make scenes with me - they kill me - they wreck the loveliness of life - I cannot see you, so Greek and gracious, distorted with passion; I cannot listen to your curved lips saying hideous things to me - don't do it - you break my heart - I'd sooner be rented* all day, than have you bitter, unjust, and horrid - horrid.

I must see you soon - you are the divine thing I want - the thing of grace and genius - but but I don't know how to do it - Shall I come to Salisbury - ? There are many difficulties - my bill here is £49 for a week! I have also got a new sitting-room over the Thames - but you, why are you not here, my dear, my wonderful boy - ? I fear I must leave; no money, no credit, and a heart of lead -

Ever your own,

Oscar. ❞

───

[ December 1893 ]

• ❝ My dearest Boy,

Thanks for your letter. I am overwhelmed by the wings of vulture creditors, and out of sorts, but I am happy in the knowledge that we are friends again, and that our love has passed through the shadow and the light of estrangement and sorrow and come out rose-crowned as of old. Let us always be infinitely dear to each other, as indeed we have been always.

[...]

I think of you daily, and am always devotedly yours.

Oscar. ❞

───

[ July 1894 ]

• ❝ My own dear Boy,

I hope the cigarettes arrived all right. I lunched with Gladys de Grey, Reggie and Aleck York there. They want me to go to Paris with them on Thursday: they say one wears flannels and straw hats and dines in the Bois, but, of course, I have no money, as usual, and can't go. Besides, I want to see you. It is really absurd. I can't live without you. You are so dear, so wonderful. I think of you all day long, and miss your grace, your boyish beauty, the bright sword-play of your wit, the delicate fancy of your genius, so surprising always in its sudden swallow-flights towards north and south, towards sun and moon - and, above all, yourself. The only thing that consoles me is what Sybil of Mortimer Street (whom mortals call Mrs. Robinson) said to me*. If I could disbelieve her I would, but I can't, and I know that early in January you and I will go away together for a long voyage, and that your lovely life goes always hand in hand with mine. My dear wonderful boy, I hope you are brilliant and happy.

I went to Bertie, today I wrote at home, then went and sat with my mother. Death and Love seem to walk on either hand as I go through life: they are the only things I think of, their wings shadow me.

London is a desert without your dainty feet... Write me a line and take all my love - now and for ever.

Always, and with devotion - but I have no words for how I love you.

Oscar. ❞

───

[ 1895, on the eve of his
final of imprisonment ]

• ❝ My dearest boy,

This is to assure you of my immortal, my eternal love for you. Tomorrow all will be over. If prison and dishonour be my destiny, think that my love for you and this idea, this still more divine belief, that you love me in return will sustain me in my unhappiness and will make me capable, I hope, of bearing my grief most patiently. Since the hope, nay rather the certainty, of meeting you again in some world is the goal and the encouragement of my present life, ah! I must continue to live in this world because of that. ❞

───

[ August 31, 1897, shortly after
Wilde's release from prison ]

• ❝ Café Suisse, Dieppe
Tuesday, 7:30

My own Darling Boy,

I got your telegram half an hour ago, and just send a line to say that I feel that my only hope of again doing beautiful work in art is being with you. It was not so in the old days, but now it is different, and you can really recreate in me that energy and sense of joyous power on which art depends. Everyone is furious with me for going back to you, but they don't understand us. I feel that it is only with you that I can do anything at all. Do remake my ruined life for me, and then our friendship and love will have a different meaning to the world.

I wish that when we met at Rouen we had not parted at all. There are such wide abysses now of space and land between us. But we love each other. Goodnight, dear. Ever yours,

Oscar. ❞

───

Additional:
[ October 1, 1897, to
Leonard Smithers -
a Sheffield solicitor ]

• ❝ How can you keep on asking is Lord Alfred Douglas in Naples? You know quite well he is - we are together. He understands me and my art, and loves both. I hope never to be separated from him. He is a most delicate and exquisite poet, besides - far the finest of all the young poets in England. You have got to publish his next volume; it is full of lovely lyrics, flute-music and moon-music, and sonnets in ivory and gold. He is witty, graceful, lovely to look at, lovable to be with. He has also ruined my life, so I can't help loving him - it is the only thing to do. ❞

As much as I hate Oscar Wilde for cheating on his wife by having an affair with Douglas, I can't make myself deny the fact that Oscar's letters to the man are so deeply passionate and brimming with love that they evoke a bittersweet emotion in my heart, a feeling I can hardly put into words.

♡

SOURCE:

Taken and rewritten
(except for the letters) from
www.themarginalian.org.