One of the deficiencies in my list of Literary Stuff I Have Read falls into the category of Anything Written by Oscar Wilde. For many years, Oscar has languished, sadly, somewhere in my to-do list. A couple of days ago I decided to remedy that, and I hauled out the huge "Collected Works Of" volume with all of his stuff. I decided to start with De Profundis, in which he writes a very long letter to "Bosie" (Alfred Douglas, son of the Marquis of Queensbury), the guy who was the occasion of Oscar's downfall. It is actually a very painful thing to read; I haven't finished it, and probably will not. In the letter, written from prison, Oscar sets out his perception of many of the interludes in their relationship. Oscar portrays himself as endlessly loving, generous, forgiving, and talented; Bosie, on the other hand, appears to have been entirely crass, shallow, manipulative, and stupid. I suppose it goes without saying that Bosie was also very amusing and attractive (actually, Bosie reminds me of a poor romantic choice I once made, years ago).
What I find most remarkable about the letter (aside from its length, and the utter catastrophe and misery from which it arises) is the self-deception that it seems to reflect concerning Oscar's feelings about Bosie. Oscar goes to enormous length, on page after page, to demonstrate his own loving and forgiving nature, repeatedly contrasting his own excellent personal qualities with Bosie's capacity and preference for anger, hatred, and mendacity. And from all evidence, it seems clear that Bosie was truly a jerk. But Oscar seems to be deceiving himself, in that he devotes tremendous effort in setting out Bosie's faults, while denying throughout that he harbors any ill will for what amounted to the destruction of Oscar's entire life. The very account itself is an act of self-righteous retaliation, and it reflects the obvious (and natural) mental energy Oscar had expended in remembering (and re-living) all the dreadful details of his interactions with Bosie. Yet Oscar is (understandably) unable or unwilling to face his own capacity for anger, and wish for retribution.
Of course, we all do this. When we have been harmed, we want to create a story out of the episode, in which there is a perpetrator and a victim. In this story, the perpetrator (the one who harmed us) is Very Bad and Evil; and we (the victims) are entirely without fault. This basic story-line is made even more comforting when we also tell ourselves that, not only are we without fault, but we are also magnanimous in defeat, without a trace of anger or bitterness. This latter point is where self-deception can most clearly be seen. The entire story, of course, will always be more or less a distortion of the actual event(s). In many (if not most) cases, when I have experienced hurt, I have played some kind of role in my own injury. It's always a challenge to try to figure out how much, or how little (and where) my own mis-steps and bad choices contributed to an interpersonal problem.
But the greater challenge, I think, lies in dealing with the emotional results of having been hurt. It is, in nearly all cases of major hurt (those caused by the deliberate actions of another), impossible to avoid the normal experiences of anger, desires for and fantasies about revenge, and even hatred. They are most unpleasant, to most of us, and we would prefer to believe we are incapable of such base and ignoble feelings and thoughts; but we are human, and they are very much part of our repertoire. They arise naturally and unbidden, like all other emotions. It is important to acknowledge that they have arisen, and to be compassionate toward the mind within which they arise. It is only after admitting that they exist that we can let them be just what they are (passing phenomena, neither good nor bad in themselves), and allow them to exist and pass away (without feeding them, and supporting them, and begging them to stay!). We have to give up the temptation to remain wedded to the story, to tell it to ourselves, again and again, the way that Oscar clearly told and retold the terrible story of Bosie and Oscar. When he is able to let go of that story, however (towards the end of the letter), he gives us reason to hope that he might find peace. Here is a short excerpt:
"Everything about my tragedy has been hideous, mean, repellent, lacking in style; our very dress makes us grotesque. We are the zanies of sorrow. We are clowns whose hearts are broken. We are specially designed to appeal to the sense of humour. On November 13th, 1895, I was brought down here from London. From two o'clock till half-past two on that day I had to stand on the centre platform of Clapham Junction in convict dress, and handcuffed, for the world to look at. I had been taken out of the hospital ward without a moment's notice being given to me. Of all possible objects I was the most grotesque. When people saw me they laughed. Each train as it came up swelled the audience. Nothing could exceed their amusement. That was, of course, before they knew who I was. As soon as they had been informed they laughed still more. For half an hour I stood there in the grey November rain surrounded by a jeering mob.
"For a year after that was done to me I wept every day at the same hour and for the same space of time. That is not such a tragic thing as possibly it sounds to you. To those who are in prison tears are a part of every day's experience. A day in prison on which one does not weep is a day on which one's heart is hard, not a day on which one's heart is happy.
"Well, now I am really beginning to feel more regret for the people who laughed than for myself. Of course when they saw me I was not on my pedestal, I was in the pillory. But it is a very unimaginative nature that only cares for people on their pedestals. A pedestal may be a very unreal thing. A pillory is a terrific reality. They should have known also how to interpret sorrow better. I have said that behind sorrow there is always sorrow. It were wiser still to say that behind sorrow there is always a soul. And to mock at a soul in pain is a dreadful thing. In the strangely simple economy of the world people only get what they give, and to those who have not enough imagination to penetrate the mere outward of things, and feel pity, what pity can be given save that of scorn?
"I write this account of the mode of my being transferred here simply that it should be realised how hard it has been for me to get anything out of my punishment but bitterness and despair. I have, however, to do it, and now and then I have moments of submission and acceptance. All the spring may be hidden in the single bud, and the low ground nest of the lark may hold the joy that is to herald the feet of many rose-red dawns. So perhaps whatever beauty of life still remains to me is contained in some moment of surrender, abasement, and humiliation. I can, at any rate, merely proceed on the lines of my own development, and, accepting all that has happened to me, make myself worthy of it."
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