I have always had mixed feelings about reading Victorian literature. It was a big part of my literature education back in college, so reading, or rather re-reading, Oscar Wilde feels like revisiting the pure and immature love one had at one’s young age. Wilde is certainly charming, witty and hopelessly romantic. If anyone wants to strike an impression in conversations, just memorize some quotes by Wilde, which are plenty. Though I enjoyed “The Importance of Being Ernest” half-heartedly, I could hardly finish “De Profundis”. Repetitive narcissism in a very witty and artistic manner, which could be swallowable if it was half the size. Mais quel pauvre! He just couldn’t get rid of Bosie, after all that he had done to him. Even after he came out of the prison at the end of two years, physically, financially and socially destroyed, he got back together with Bosie. What is that but love? Period.
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