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I've read a few Oscar Wilde biographies in my time (a hero of mine) and this is the best one. If I was a literary genius, I'd write something more profound, but I'm not, so I'm giving it 4/5
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Oscar Wilde
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The biography sensitive to the tragic pattern of the story of a great subject: Oscar Wilde - psychologically and sexually complicated, enormously quotable, central to an. alluring cultural world and someone whose life assumed an unbearably dramatic shape.
736 pages, Paperback
First published January 1,1987
This edition
- Format
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736 pages, Paperback
- Published
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November 5, 1988 by Vintage
- ISBN
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9780394759845
- ASIN
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0394759842
- Language
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English
Characters More characters
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Oscar Wilde
Oscar Fingal OFlahertie Wills Wilde (1854 - 1900) was an Irish writer and poet. After writing in different forms throughout the 1880s, he became one of Londons most popular playwrights in the early 1890s. Today he is remembered for his epigram...
About the author
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Richard David Ellmann was an American literary critic and biographer of the Irish writers James Joyce, Oscar Wilde, and William Butler Yeats. He won the U.S. National Book Award for Nonfiction for James Joyce (1959), one of the most acclaimed literary biographies of the 20th century. Its 1982 revised edition won James Tait Black Memorial Prize. Ellmann was a liberal humanist, and his academic work focuses on the major modernist writers of the 20th century.
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The Finished date is the “White Flag Surrender” date. The book was an exercise in patience that…lost.
Wilde was an interesting man, and he left many literary gems. Author Ellmann created a drudgery of insipid details and included too many words to get to a point.
Wilde was an interesting man, and he left many literary gems. Author Ellmann created a drudgery of insipid details and included too many words to get to a point.
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I am not, as I once claimed, Oscar Wilde. I lost the green coat—the one I wore to America, with tufts of fur falling out of the collar, with shapely cuffs. I lost the books (their dedications), shoes (the tipped ones, the ones you lace right up to your britches), and the shape of my wife’s mouth when she said it, when she called my name, even that, even when I didn’t come.
And because I am not Oscar Wilde, because someone’s body is thinning in the dirt, I can still say this. Say, through this blue sheen, that he (Did you know they found shit smeared on the sheets of his bed? That boys young enough to climb stairs climbed the stairs of his suite?) that Oscar Wilde bled from the eyes and mouth right before—
And I wonder (justly) if something might have exploded there, in his head, maybe something in the ear, something eating straight through. Maybe it was a little itch, a syphilis, that scratched the eyes’ interior. A disease that lived inside the tongue and the skull couldn’t hold it, couldn’t (either he or the wallpaper had to go).
Oscar, if you place a glass of water on the bed, someone is bound to knock it over. The boy will spill it, the boy will capsize—a beautiful Greek boy—he will ride the sea’s black coattails all the way down. Your hyacinth, Oscar, will break the vase, break every part of the vase, out of beauty.
So Oscar pushed up his shirtsleeves and (there, there are my hands—now take them) let them lead. The law. He listened (he never listened before) to the funny sound that hunger made, the crescendo, the bells turning up their skirts, the throttle of his throat, the ropes of his intestines wrung out. During the course of two years (it was only two years), the buzzing began. It was one prison, then another (there were only three); and he grew too large for the space, for a cell suited to the taking and leaving of prostitutes. He was too large for such of ceiling, for the blur of windows placed just below the ceiling, for all things having to do with penance.
He wanted to read Dante in prison. He wanted the darkness he squinted into to take a form, any form, to become black pages, one after another ruffling under his fingers. He wanted the weight to shift from his right hand to the left, and then the book would end like an accordion squeezed shut, finally silent.
He wanted to learn Italian, so after prison the words would not appear misplaced. He wanted to ride of the back of those words, to stuff himself into the new tongues forming around his teeth. I will write a play, he said. And he didn’t. I will write a poem, he said, and it was bad. I have forgotten everything he said, and the slits of eyes stared back at him.
Maybe there will be new boys. New cigarette cases. Lectures. He thought this, but No. His wife changed her name and died. He never looked at his children again. He held a hand mirror, held it over his anus and strained to see. And in this thinning hair, in this new kind of bankruptcy, there was nothing to send to the children in prison, the ones locked up for shooting rabbits. For them, nothing.
And because I am not Oscar Wilde, because someone’s body is thinning in the dirt, I can still say this. Say, through this blue sheen, that he (Did you know they found shit smeared on the sheets of his bed? That boys young enough to climb stairs climbed the stairs of his suite?) that Oscar Wilde bled from the eyes and mouth right before—
And I wonder (justly) if something might have exploded there, in his head, maybe something in the ear, something eating straight through. Maybe it was a little itch, a syphilis, that scratched the eyes’ interior. A disease that lived inside the tongue and the skull couldn’t hold it, couldn’t (either he or the wallpaper had to go).
Oscar, if you place a glass of water on the bed, someone is bound to knock it over. The boy will spill it, the boy will capsize—a beautiful Greek boy—he will ride the sea’s black coattails all the way down. Your hyacinth, Oscar, will break the vase, break every part of the vase, out of beauty.
So Oscar pushed up his shirtsleeves and (there, there are my hands—now take them) let them lead. The law. He listened (he never listened before) to the funny sound that hunger made, the crescendo, the bells turning up their skirts, the throttle of his throat, the ropes of his intestines wrung out. During the course of two years (it was only two years), the buzzing began. It was one prison, then another (there were only three); and he grew too large for the space, for a cell suited to the taking and leaving of prostitutes. He was too large for such of ceiling, for the blur of windows placed just below the ceiling, for all things having to do with penance.
He wanted to read Dante in prison. He wanted the darkness he squinted into to take a form, any form, to become black pages, one after another ruffling under his fingers. He wanted the weight to shift from his right hand to the left, and then the book would end like an accordion squeezed shut, finally silent.
He wanted to learn Italian, so after prison the words would not appear misplaced. He wanted to ride of the back of those words, to stuff himself into the new tongues forming around his teeth. I will write a play, he said. And he didn’t. I will write a poem, he said, and it was bad. I have forgotten everything he said, and the slits of eyes stared back at him.
Maybe there will be new boys. New cigarette cases. Lectures. He thought this, but No. His wife changed her name and died. He never looked at his children again. He held a hand mirror, held it over his anus and strained to see. And in this thinning hair, in this new kind of bankruptcy, there was nothing to send to the children in prison, the ones locked up for shooting rabbits. For them, nothing.
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You have to admire the extraordinary amount of research that has gone into this book, which make it still, almost 40 years on, the definitive biography on Wilde.
However, as others have commented, there is exhaustive and excessive analysis of Wilde’s literary output and his verbal jousting with his contemporaries, which cater more for the academic taste. The reader has to wade through this to get to the interesting bits. Wilde’s sex life, in particular, is treated with almost Victorian prudishness, which forms a barrier with the modern reader, especially if (s)he is gay.
There is a tendency these days to view Oscar Wilde as a trailblazing gay hero but this biography shows that, for all the hypocrisy of Victorian morality, he was largely a victim of his own self-destructive hubris and an appallingly poor taste in men.
However, as others have commented, there is exhaustive and excessive analysis of Wilde’s literary output and his verbal jousting with his contemporaries, which cater more for the academic taste. The reader has to wade through this to get to the interesting bits. Wilde’s sex life, in particular, is treated with almost Victorian prudishness, which forms a barrier with the modern reader, especially if (s)he is gay.
There is a tendency these days to view Oscar Wilde as a trailblazing gay hero but this biography shows that, for all the hypocrisy of Victorian morality, he was largely a victim of his own self-destructive hubris and an appallingly poor taste in men.
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a lot of things to correct with the help of the annotations and corrections by Horst Schroeder but apart from that a great book about a fascinating character
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Honestly this book was mostly just "ok" for me, but I'm giving it a slightly higher rating because I think Ellman deserves it.
I picked this up thinking it was going to be filled with super tawdry details of Wilde's life, but mostly it was literary criticism paralleled by events that occurred during the writing of each of his works.
So it was okay. I wish it would have been a little more Wilde and a little less Wilde's contribution to literature.
I picked this up thinking it was going to be filled with super tawdry details of Wilde's life, but mostly it was literary criticism paralleled by events that occurred during the writing of each of his works.
So it was okay. I wish it would have been a little more Wilde and a little less Wilde's contribution to literature.
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Just one word: Impeccable!
Ever since my brother first introduced me to Oscar Wilde while I was still in secondary school, I have been obsessed with everything written by the man. The Picture of Dorian Gray has been one of my favourite classics for years now and when my current pre-master programme requested me to conduct a literature review paper on a self-chosen topic, I could not put Wilde out of my head.
After having decided to conduct a research on Wilde's vision of the Aesthetic Movement, with a focus on Dorian Gray, my tutor introduced me to this biography and boy.. am I glad that I decided to read it.
I'm usually not a very big fan of non-fiction / biographies. They are truly interesting but as a reader, I prefer escaping to one of the many magical fictional worlds that have been provided to us by so many talented authors. Yet this biography by Richard Ellmann immediately pulled me into the world of Wilde and I loved every second of it. The tale of Wilde's life, and the most important events in it, is told in such a detailed and attention-grabbing manner. The story is written with so much grace and it clearly shows the immense respect the author must have had for (let's be honest) everyone's most beloved Aesthete.
However, the book is written from a rather subjective point of view which I personally did not mind that much, but I can imagine that some might prefer reading a biography written in more objective manner.
Besides providing me with lots of new knowledge, Ellmann also allowed me to change my views of Wilde, especially when it came to his artistic (mainly aesthetic) principles. At first, I was scared to dive into this book, considering that it's quite a BIG book but also because I was afraid that it would provide me with an image of Wilde that I would end up not liking so much after all, but to be honest; Ellmann achieved the complete opposite. It made me realise that Oscar Wilde went way beyond his art, he truly was (and still is, in my humble opinion) larger than life and I cannot help myself but to consider Wilde as a piece of art himself.
The book made me feel all kinds of emotions, regarding the man's life, his many wonderous achievements and the various ways he was regarded and treated by many, and this made me love it even more.
Ellmann truly provided me with more reasons to greatly admire the witty genius that is Oscar Wilde and I highly recommend this book to everyone who has an interest in Wilde, 19th-century cultures and aesthetics, or literary art in general.
Ever since my brother first introduced me to Oscar Wilde while I was still in secondary school, I have been obsessed with everything written by the man. The Picture of Dorian Gray has been one of my favourite classics for years now and when my current pre-master programme requested me to conduct a literature review paper on a self-chosen topic, I could not put Wilde out of my head.
After having decided to conduct a research on Wilde's vision of the Aesthetic Movement, with a focus on Dorian Gray, my tutor introduced me to this biography and boy.. am I glad that I decided to read it.
I'm usually not a very big fan of non-fiction / biographies. They are truly interesting but as a reader, I prefer escaping to one of the many magical fictional worlds that have been provided to us by so many talented authors. Yet this biography by Richard Ellmann immediately pulled me into the world of Wilde and I loved every second of it. The tale of Wilde's life, and the most important events in it, is told in such a detailed and attention-grabbing manner. The story is written with so much grace and it clearly shows the immense respect the author must have had for (let's be honest) everyone's most beloved Aesthete.
However, the book is written from a rather subjective point of view which I personally did not mind that much, but I can imagine that some might prefer reading a biography written in more objective manner.
Besides providing me with lots of new knowledge, Ellmann also allowed me to change my views of Wilde, especially when it came to his artistic (mainly aesthetic) principles. At first, I was scared to dive into this book, considering that it's quite a BIG book but also because I was afraid that it would provide me with an image of Wilde that I would end up not liking so much after all, but to be honest; Ellmann achieved the complete opposite. It made me realise that Oscar Wilde went way beyond his art, he truly was (and still is, in my humble opinion) larger than life and I cannot help myself but to consider Wilde as a piece of art himself.
The book made me feel all kinds of emotions, regarding the man's life, his many wonderous achievements and the various ways he was regarded and treated by many, and this made me love it even more.
Ellmann truly provided me with more reasons to greatly admire the witty genius that is Oscar Wilde and I highly recommend this book to everyone who has an interest in Wilde, 19th-century cultures and aesthetics, or literary art in general.
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Fantastic biography. Nice to know more about Oscar Wilde - lovely conclusion to seeing importance of being earnest at the royal exchange and his grave at Père Lachaise (which is covered in lipstick kisses). Baby baby it’s a Wilde world
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