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in the
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Wilde - De Profundis
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Title: De Profundis
Author: Oscar Wilde
Release Date: April 13, 2007 [eBook #921]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII)
***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DE PROFUNDIS***
Transcribed from the 1913 Methuen & Co. edition by David Price, email
ccx074@pglaf. org. Note that later editions of De Profundis contained
more material. The most complete editions are still in copyright in the
U. S. A.
DE PROFUNDIS
. . . Suffering is one very long moment. We cannot divide it by seasons.
We can only record its moods, and chronicle their return. With us time
itself does not progress. It revolves. It seems to circle round one
centre of pain. The paralysing immobility of a life every circumstance
of which is regulated after an unchangeable pattern, so that we eat and
drink and lie down and pray, or kneel at least for prayer, according to
the inflexible laws of an iron formula: this immobile quality, that makes
each dreadful day in the very minutest detail like its brother, seems to
communicate itself to those external forces the very essence of whose
existence is ceaseless change. Of seed-time or harvest, of the reapers
bending over the corn, or the grape gatherers threading through the
vines, of the grass in the orchard made white with broken blossoms or
strewn with fallen fruit: of these we know nothing and can know nothing.
For us there is only one season, the season of sorrow. The very sun and
moon seem taken from us. Outside, the day may be blue and gold, but the
light that creeps down through the thickly-muffled glass of the small
iron-barred window beneath which one sits is grey and niggard. It is
always twilight in one's cell, as it is always twilight in one's heart.
And in the sphere of thought, no less than in the sphere of time, motion
is no more. The thing that you personally have long ago forgotten, or
can easily forget, is happening to me now, and will happen to me again to-
morrow. Remember this, and you will be able to understand a little of
why I am writing, and in this manner writing. . . .
A week later, I am transferred here. Three more months go over and my
mother dies. No one knew how deeply I loved and honoured her. Her death
was terrible to me; but I, once a lord of language, have no words in
which to express my anguish and my shame. She and my father had
bequeathed me a name they had made noble and honoured, not merely in
literature, art, archaeology, and science, but in the public history of
my own country, in its evolution as a nation. I had disgraced that name
eternally. I had made it a low by-word among low people. I had dragged
it through the very mire. I had given it to brutes that they might make
it brutal, and to fools that they might turn it into a synonym for folly.
What I suffered then, and still suffer, is not for pen to write or paper
to record. My wife, always kind and gentle to me, rather than that I
should hear the news from indifferent lips, travelled, ill as she was,
all the way from Genoa to England to break to me herself the tidings of
so irreparable, so irremediable, a loss. Messages of sympathy reached me
from all who had still affection for me. Even people who had not known
me personally, hearing that a new sorrow had broken into my life, wrote
to ask that some expression of their condolence should be conveyed to me.
. . .
Three months go over. The calendar of my daily conduct and labour that
hangs on the outside of my cell door, with my name and sentence written
upon it, tells me that it is May. . . .
Prosperity, pleasure and success, may be rough of grain and common in
fibre, but sorrow is the most sensitive of all created things. There is
nothing that stirs in the whole world of thought to which sorrow does not
vibrate in terrible and exquisite pulsation. The thin beaten-out leaf of
tremulous gold that chronicles the direction of forces the eye cannot see
is in comparison coarse. It is a wound that bleeds when any hand but
that of love touches it, and even then must bleed again, though not in
pain.
Where there is sorrow there is holy ground. Some day people will realise
what that means. They will know nothing of life till they do,--and
natures like his can realise it. When I was brought down from my prison
to the Court of Bankruptcy, between two policemen,--waited in the long
dreary corridor that, before the whole crowd, whom an action so sweet and
simple hushed into silence, he might gravely raise his hat to me, as,
handcuffed and with bowed head, I passed him by. Men have gone to heaven
for smaller things than that. It was in this spirit, and with this mode
of love, that the saints knelt down to wash the feet of the poor, or
stooped to kiss the leper on the cheek. I have never said one single
word to him about what he did. I do not know to the present moment
whether he is aware that I was even conscious of his action. It is not a
thing for which one can render formal thanks in formal words. I store it
in the treasure-house of my heart. I keep it there as a secret debt that
I am glad to think I can never possibly repay. It is embalmed and kept
sweet by the myrrh and cassia of many tears. When wisdom has been
profitless to me, philosophy barren, and the proverbs and phrases of
those who have sought to give me consolation as dust and ashes in my
mouth, the memory of that little, lovely, silent act of love has unsealed
for me all the wells of pity: made the desert blossom like a rose, and
brought me out of the bitterness of lonely exile into harmony with the
wounded, broken, and great heart of the world. When people are able to
understand, not merely how beautiful ---'s action was, but why it meant
so much to me, and always will mean so much, then, perhaps, they will
realise how and in what spirit they should approach me. . . .
The poor are wise, more charitable, more kind, more sensitive than we
are. In their eyes prison is a tragedy in a man's life, a misfortune, a
casuality, something that calls for sympathy in others. They speak of
one who is in prison as of one who is 'in trouble' simply. It is the
phrase they always use, and the expression has the perfect wisdom of love
in it. With people of our own rank it is different. With us, prison
makes a man a pariah. I, and such as I am, have hardly any right to air
and sun. Our presence taints the pleasures of others. We are unwelcome
when we reappear. To revisit the glimpses of the moon is not for us. Our
very children are taken away. Those lovely links with humanity are
broken. We are doomed to be solitary, while our sons still live. We are
denied the one thing that might heal us and keep us, that might bring
balm to the bruised heart, and peace to the soul in pain. . . .
I must say to myself that I ruined myself, and that nobody great or small
can be ruined except by his own hand. I am quite ready to say so. I am
trying to say so, though they may not think it at the present moment.
This pitiless indictment I bring without pity against myself. Terrible
as was what the world did to me, what I did to myself was far more
terrible still.
I was a man who stood in symbolic relations to the art and culture of my
age. I had realised this for myself at the very dawn of my manhood, and
had forced my age to realise it afterwards. Few men hold such a position
in their own lifetime, and have it so acknowledged. It is usually
discerned, if discerned at all, by the historian, or the critic, long
after both the man and his age have passed away. With me it was
different. I felt it myself, and made others feel it. Byron was a
symbolic figure, but his relations were to the passion of his age and its
weariness of passion. Mine were to something more noble, more permanent,
of more vital issue, of larger scope.
The gods had given me almost everything. But I let myself be lured into
long spells of senseless and sensual ease. I amused myself with being a
_flaneur_, a dandy, a man of fashion. I surrounded myself with the
smaller natures and the meaner minds. I became the spendthrift of my own
genius, and to waste an eternal youth gave me a curious joy. Tired of
being on the heights, I deliberately went to the depths in the search for
new sensation. What the paradox was to me in the sphere of thought,
perversity became to me in the sphere of passion. Desire, at the end,
was a malady, or a madness, or both. I grew careless of the lives of
others. I took pleasure where it pleased me, and passed on. I forgot
that every little action of the common day makes or unmakes character,
and that therefore what one has done in the secret chamber one has some
day to cry aloud on the housetop. I ceased to be lord over myself. I
was no longer the captain of my soul, and did not know it. I allowed
pleasure to dominate me. I ended in horrible disgrace. There is only
one thing for me now, absolute humility.
I have lain in prison for nearly two years. Out of my nature has come
wild despair; an abandonment to grief that was piteous even to look at;
terrible and impotent rage; bitterness and scorn; anguish that wept
aloud; misery that could find no voice; sorrow that was dumb. I have
passed through every possible mood of suffering. Better than Wordsworth
himself I know what Wordsworth meant when he said--
'Suffering is permanent, obscure, and dark
And has the nature of infinity. '
But while there were times when I rejoiced in the idea that my sufferings
were to be endless, I could not bear them to be without meaning. Now I
find hidden somewhere away in my nature something that tells me that
nothing in the whole world is meaningless, and suffering least of all.
That something hidden away in my nature, like a treasure in a field, is
Humility.
It is the last thing left in me, and the best: the ultimate discovery at
which I have arrived, the starting-point for a fresh development. It has
come to me right out of myself, so I know that it has come at the proper
time. It could not have come before, nor later. Had any one told me of
it, I would have rejected it. Had it been brought to me, I would have
refused it. As I found it, I want to keep it. I must do so. It is the
one thing that has in it the elements of life, of a new life, _Vita
Nuova_ for me. Of all things it is the strangest. One cannot acquire
it, except by surrendering everything that one has. It is only when one
has lost all things, that one knows that one possesses it.
Now I have realised that it is in me, I see quite clearly what I ought to
do; in fact, must do. And when I use such a phrase as that, I need not
say that I am not alluding to any external sanction or command. I admit
none. I am far more of an individualist than I ever was. Nothing seems
to me of the smallest value except what one gets out of oneself. My
nature is seeking a fresh mode of self-realisation. That is all I am
concerned with. And the first thing that I have got to do is to free
myself from any possible bitterness of feeling against the world.
I am completely penniless, and absolutely homeless. Yet there are worse
things in the world than that. I am quite candid when I say that rather
than go out from this prison with bitterness in my heart against the
world, I would gladly and readily beg my bread from door to door. If I
got nothing from the house of the rich I would get something at the house
of the poor. Those who have much are often greedy; those who have little
always share. I would not a bit mind sleeping in the cool grass in
summer, and when winter came on sheltering myself by the warm
close-thatched rick, or under the penthouse of a great barn, provided I
had love in my heart. The external things of life seem to me now of no
importance at all. You can see to what intensity of individualism I have
arrived--or am arriving rather, for the journey is long, and 'where I
walk there are thorns. '
Of course I know that to ask alms on the highway is not to be my lot, and
that if ever I lie in the cool grass at night-time it will be to write
sonnets to the moon. When I go out of prison, R--- will be waiting for
me on the other side of the big iron-studded gate, and he is the symbol,
not merely of his own affection, but of the affection of many others
besides. I believe I am to have enough to live on for about eighteen
months at any rate, so that if I may not write beautiful books, I may at
least read beautiful books; and what joy can be greater? After that, I
hope to be able to recreate my creative faculty.
But were things different: had I not a friend left in the world; were
there not a single house open to me in pity; had I to accept the wallet
and ragged cloak of sheer penury: as long as I am free from all
resentment, hardness and scorn, I would be able to face the life with
much more calm and confidence than I would were my body in purple and
fine linen, and the soul within me sick with hate.
And I really shall have no difficulty. When you really want love you
will find it waiting for you.
I need not say that my task does not end there. It would be
comparatively easy if it did. There is much more before me. I have
hills far steeper to climb, valleys much darker to pass through. And I
have to get it all out of myself. Neither religion, morality, nor reason
can help me at all.
Morality does not help me. I am a born antinomian. I am one of those
who are made for exceptions, not for laws. But while I see that there is
nothing wrong in what one does, I see that there is something wrong in
what one becomes. It is well to have learned that.
Religion does not help me. The faith that others give to what is unseen,
I give to what one can touch, and look at. My gods dwell in temples made
with hands; and within the circle of actual experience is my creed made
perfect and complete: too complete, it may be, for like many or all of
those who have placed their heaven in this earth, I have found in it not
merely the beauty of heaven, but the horror of hell also. When I think
about religion at all, I feel as if I would like to found an order for
those who _cannot_ believe: the Confraternity of the Faithless, one might
call it, where on an altar, on which no taper burned, a priest, in whose
heart peace had no dwelling, might celebrate with unblessed bread and a
chalice empty of wine. Every thing to be true must become a religion.
And agnosticism should have its ritual no less than faith. It has sown
its martyrs, it should reap its saints, and praise God daily for having
hidden Himself from man. But whether it be faith or agnosticism, it must
be nothing external to me. Its symbols must be of my own creating. Only
that is spiritual which makes its own form. If I may not find its secret
within myself, I shall never find it: if I have not got it already, it
will never come to me.
Reason does not help me. It tells me that the laws under which I am
convicted are wrong and unjust laws, and the system under which I have
suffered a wrong and unjust system. But, somehow, I have got to make
both of these things just and right to me. And exactly as in Art one is
only concerned with what a particular thing is at a particular moment to
oneself, so it is also in the ethical evolution of one's character. I
have got to make everything that has happened to me good for me. The
plank bed, the loathsome food, the hard ropes shredded into oakum till
one's finger-tips grow dull with pain, the menial offices with which each
day begins and finishes, the harsh orders that routine seems to
necessitate, the dreadful dress that makes sorrow grotesque to look at,
the silence, the solitude, the shame--each and all of these things I have
to transform into a spiritual experience. There is not a single
degradation of the body which I must not try and make into a
spiritualising of the soul.
I want to get to the point when I shall be able to say quite simply, and
without affectation that the two great turning-points in my life were
when my father sent me to Oxford, and when society sent me to prison. I
will not say that prison is the best thing that could have happened to
me: for that phrase would savour of too great bitterness towards myself.
I would sooner say, or hear it said of me, that I was so typical a child
of my age, that in my perversity, and for that perversity's sake, I
turned the good things of my life to evil, and the evil things of my life
to good.
What is said, however, by myself or by others, matters little. The
important thing, the thing that lies before me, the thing that I have to
do, if the brief remainder of my days is not to be maimed, marred, and
incomplete, is to absorb into my nature all that has been done to me, to
make it part of me, to accept it without complaint, fear, or reluctance.
The supreme vice is shallowness. Whatever is realised is right.
When first I was put into prison some people advised me to try and forget
who I was. It was ruinous advice. It is only by realising what I am
that I have found comfort of any kind. Now I am advised by others to try
on my release to forget that I have ever been in a prison at all.
The most complete editions are still in copyright in the
U. S. A.
DE PROFUNDIS
. . . Suffering is one very long moment. We cannot divide it by seasons.
We can only record its moods, and chronicle their return. With us time
itself does not progress. It revolves. It seems to circle round one
centre of pain. The paralysing immobility of a life every circumstance
of which is regulated after an unchangeable pattern, so that we eat and
drink and lie down and pray, or kneel at least for prayer, according to
the inflexible laws of an iron formula: this immobile quality, that makes
each dreadful day in the very minutest detail like its brother, seems to
communicate itself to those external forces the very essence of whose
existence is ceaseless change. Of seed-time or harvest, of the reapers
bending over the corn, or the grape gatherers threading through the
vines, of the grass in the orchard made white with broken blossoms or
strewn with fallen fruit: of these we know nothing and can know nothing.
For us there is only one season, the season of sorrow. The very sun and
moon seem taken from us. Outside, the day may be blue and gold, but the
light that creeps down through the thickly-muffled glass of the small
iron-barred window beneath which one sits is grey and niggard. It is
always twilight in one's cell, as it is always twilight in one's heart.
And in the sphere of thought, no less than in the sphere of time, motion
is no more. The thing that you personally have long ago forgotten, or
can easily forget, is happening to me now, and will happen to me again to-
morrow. Remember this, and you will be able to understand a little of
why I am writing, and in this manner writing. . . .
A week later, I am transferred here. Three more months go over and my
mother dies. No one knew how deeply I loved and honoured her. Her death
was terrible to me; but I, once a lord of language, have no words in
which to express my anguish and my shame. She and my father had
bequeathed me a name they had made noble and honoured, not merely in
literature, art, archaeology, and science, but in the public history of
my own country, in its evolution as a nation. I had disgraced that name
eternally. I had made it a low by-word among low people. I had dragged
it through the very mire. I had given it to brutes that they might make
it brutal, and to fools that they might turn it into a synonym for folly.
What I suffered then, and still suffer, is not for pen to write or paper
to record. My wife, always kind and gentle to me, rather than that I
should hear the news from indifferent lips, travelled, ill as she was,
all the way from Genoa to England to break to me herself the tidings of
so irreparable, so irremediable, a loss. Messages of sympathy reached me
from all who had still affection for me. Even people who had not known
me personally, hearing that a new sorrow had broken into my life, wrote
to ask that some expression of their condolence should be conveyed to me.
. . .
Three months go over. The calendar of my daily conduct and labour that
hangs on the outside of my cell door, with my name and sentence written
upon it, tells me that it is May. . . .
Prosperity, pleasure and success, may be rough of grain and common in
fibre, but sorrow is the most sensitive of all created things. There is
nothing that stirs in the whole world of thought to which sorrow does not
vibrate in terrible and exquisite pulsation. The thin beaten-out leaf of
tremulous gold that chronicles the direction of forces the eye cannot see
is in comparison coarse. It is a wound that bleeds when any hand but
that of love touches it, and even then must bleed again, though not in
pain.
Where there is sorrow there is holy ground. Some day people will realise
what that means. They will know nothing of life till they do,--and
natures like his can realise it. When I was brought down from my prison
to the Court of Bankruptcy, between two policemen,--waited in the long
dreary corridor that, before the whole crowd, whom an action so sweet and
simple hushed into silence, he might gravely raise his hat to me, as,
handcuffed and with bowed head, I passed him by. Men have gone to heaven
for smaller things than that. It was in this spirit, and with this mode
of love, that the saints knelt down to wash the feet of the poor, or
stooped to kiss the leper on the cheek. I have never said one single
word to him about what he did. I do not know to the present moment
whether he is aware that I was even conscious of his action. It is not a
thing for which one can render formal thanks in formal words. I store it
in the treasure-house of my heart. I keep it there as a secret debt that
I am glad to think I can never possibly repay. It is embalmed and kept
sweet by the myrrh and cassia of many tears. When wisdom has been
profitless to me, philosophy barren, and the proverbs and phrases of
those who have sought to give me consolation as dust and ashes in my
mouth, the memory of that little, lovely, silent act of love has unsealed
for me all the wells of pity: made the desert blossom like a rose, and
brought me out of the bitterness of lonely exile into harmony with the
wounded, broken, and great heart of the world. When people are able to
understand, not merely how beautiful ---'s action was, but why it meant
so much to me, and always will mean so much, then, perhaps, they will
realise how and in what spirit they should approach me. . . .
The poor are wise, more charitable, more kind, more sensitive than we
are. In their eyes prison is a tragedy in a man's life, a misfortune, a
casuality, something that calls for sympathy in others. They speak of
one who is in prison as of one who is 'in trouble' simply. It is the
phrase they always use, and the expression has the perfect wisdom of love
in it. With people of our own rank it is different. With us, prison
makes a man a pariah. I, and such as I am, have hardly any right to air
and sun. Our presence taints the pleasures of others. We are unwelcome
when we reappear. To revisit the glimpses of the moon is not for us. Our
very children are taken away. Those lovely links with humanity are
broken. We are doomed to be solitary, while our sons still live. We are
denied the one thing that might heal us and keep us, that might bring
balm to the bruised heart, and peace to the soul in pain. . . .
I must say to myself that I ruined myself, and that nobody great or small
can be ruined except by his own hand. I am quite ready to say so. I am
trying to say so, though they may not think it at the present moment.
This pitiless indictment I bring without pity against myself. Terrible
as was what the world did to me, what I did to myself was far more
terrible still.
I was a man who stood in symbolic relations to the art and culture of my
age. I had realised this for myself at the very dawn of my manhood, and
had forced my age to realise it afterwards. Few men hold such a position
in their own lifetime, and have it so acknowledged. It is usually
discerned, if discerned at all, by the historian, or the critic, long
after both the man and his age have passed away. With me it was
different. I felt it myself, and made others feel it. Byron was a
symbolic figure, but his relations were to the passion of his age and its
weariness of passion. Mine were to something more noble, more permanent,
of more vital issue, of larger scope.
The gods had given me almost everything. But I let myself be lured into
long spells of senseless and sensual ease. I amused myself with being a
_flaneur_, a dandy, a man of fashion. I surrounded myself with the
smaller natures and the meaner minds. I became the spendthrift of my own
genius, and to waste an eternal youth gave me a curious joy. Tired of
being on the heights, I deliberately went to the depths in the search for
new sensation. What the paradox was to me in the sphere of thought,
perversity became to me in the sphere of passion. Desire, at the end,
was a malady, or a madness, or both. I grew careless of the lives of
others. I took pleasure where it pleased me, and passed on. I forgot
that every little action of the common day makes or unmakes character,
and that therefore what one has done in the secret chamber one has some
day to cry aloud on the housetop. I ceased to be lord over myself. I
was no longer the captain of my soul, and did not know it. I allowed
pleasure to dominate me. I ended in horrible disgrace. There is only
one thing for me now, absolute humility.
I have lain in prison for nearly two years. Out of my nature has come
wild despair; an abandonment to grief that was piteous even to look at;
terrible and impotent rage; bitterness and scorn; anguish that wept
aloud; misery that could find no voice; sorrow that was dumb. I have
passed through every possible mood of suffering. Better than Wordsworth
himself I know what Wordsworth meant when he said--
'Suffering is permanent, obscure, and dark
And has the nature of infinity. '
But while there were times when I rejoiced in the idea that my sufferings
were to be endless, I could not bear them to be without meaning. Now I
find hidden somewhere away in my nature something that tells me that
nothing in the whole world is meaningless, and suffering least of all.
That something hidden away in my nature, like a treasure in a field, is
Humility.
It is the last thing left in me, and the best: the ultimate discovery at
which I have arrived, the starting-point for a fresh development. It has
come to me right out of myself, so I know that it has come at the proper
time. It could not have come before, nor later. Had any one told me of
it, I would have rejected it. Had it been brought to me, I would have
refused it. As I found it, I want to keep it. I must do so. It is the
one thing that has in it the elements of life, of a new life, _Vita
Nuova_ for me. Of all things it is the strangest. One cannot acquire
it, except by surrendering everything that one has. It is only when one
has lost all things, that one knows that one possesses it.
Now I have realised that it is in me, I see quite clearly what I ought to
do; in fact, must do. And when I use such a phrase as that, I need not
say that I am not alluding to any external sanction or command. I admit
none. I am far more of an individualist than I ever was. Nothing seems
to me of the smallest value except what one gets out of oneself. My
nature is seeking a fresh mode of self-realisation. That is all I am
concerned with. And the first thing that I have got to do is to free
myself from any possible bitterness of feeling against the world.
I am completely penniless, and absolutely homeless. Yet there are worse
things in the world than that. I am quite candid when I say that rather
than go out from this prison with bitterness in my heart against the
world, I would gladly and readily beg my bread from door to door. If I
got nothing from the house of the rich I would get something at the house
of the poor. Those who have much are often greedy; those who have little
always share. I would not a bit mind sleeping in the cool grass in
summer, and when winter came on sheltering myself by the warm
close-thatched rick, or under the penthouse of a great barn, provided I
had love in my heart. The external things of life seem to me now of no
importance at all. You can see to what intensity of individualism I have
arrived--or am arriving rather, for the journey is long, and 'where I
walk there are thorns. '
Of course I know that to ask alms on the highway is not to be my lot, and
that if ever I lie in the cool grass at night-time it will be to write
sonnets to the moon. When I go out of prison, R--- will be waiting for
me on the other side of the big iron-studded gate, and he is the symbol,
not merely of his own affection, but of the affection of many others
besides. I believe I am to have enough to live on for about eighteen
months at any rate, so that if I may not write beautiful books, I may at
least read beautiful books; and what joy can be greater? After that, I
hope to be able to recreate my creative faculty.
But were things different: had I not a friend left in the world; were
there not a single house open to me in pity; had I to accept the wallet
and ragged cloak of sheer penury: as long as I am free from all
resentment, hardness and scorn, I would be able to face the life with
much more calm and confidence than I would were my body in purple and
fine linen, and the soul within me sick with hate.
And I really shall have no difficulty. When you really want love you
will find it waiting for you.
I need not say that my task does not end there. It would be
comparatively easy if it did. There is much more before me. I have
hills far steeper to climb, valleys much darker to pass through. And I
have to get it all out of myself. Neither religion, morality, nor reason
can help me at all.
Morality does not help me. I am a born antinomian. I am one of those
who are made for exceptions, not for laws. But while I see that there is
nothing wrong in what one does, I see that there is something wrong in
what one becomes. It is well to have learned that.
Religion does not help me. The faith that others give to what is unseen,
I give to what one can touch, and look at. My gods dwell in temples made
with hands; and within the circle of actual experience is my creed made
perfect and complete: too complete, it may be, for like many or all of
those who have placed their heaven in this earth, I have found in it not
merely the beauty of heaven, but the horror of hell also. When I think
about religion at all, I feel as if I would like to found an order for
those who _cannot_ believe: the Confraternity of the Faithless, one might
call it, where on an altar, on which no taper burned, a priest, in whose
heart peace had no dwelling, might celebrate with unblessed bread and a
chalice empty of wine. Every thing to be true must become a religion.
And agnosticism should have its ritual no less than faith. It has sown
its martyrs, it should reap its saints, and praise God daily for having
hidden Himself from man. But whether it be faith or agnosticism, it must
be nothing external to me. Its symbols must be of my own creating. Only
that is spiritual which makes its own form. If I may not find its secret
within myself, I shall never find it: if I have not got it already, it
will never come to me.
Reason does not help me. It tells me that the laws under which I am
convicted are wrong and unjust laws, and the system under which I have
suffered a wrong and unjust system. But, somehow, I have got to make
both of these things just and right to me. And exactly as in Art one is
only concerned with what a particular thing is at a particular moment to
oneself, so it is also in the ethical evolution of one's character. I
have got to make everything that has happened to me good for me. The
plank bed, the loathsome food, the hard ropes shredded into oakum till
one's finger-tips grow dull with pain, the menial offices with which each
day begins and finishes, the harsh orders that routine seems to
necessitate, the dreadful dress that makes sorrow grotesque to look at,
the silence, the solitude, the shame--each and all of these things I have
to transform into a spiritual experience. There is not a single
degradation of the body which I must not try and make into a
spiritualising of the soul.
I want to get to the point when I shall be able to say quite simply, and
without affectation that the two great turning-points in my life were
when my father sent me to Oxford, and when society sent me to prison. I
will not say that prison is the best thing that could have happened to
me: for that phrase would savour of too great bitterness towards myself.
I would sooner say, or hear it said of me, that I was so typical a child
of my age, that in my perversity, and for that perversity's sake, I
turned the good things of my life to evil, and the evil things of my life
to good.
What is said, however, by myself or by others, matters little. The
important thing, the thing that lies before me, the thing that I have to
do, if the brief remainder of my days is not to be maimed, marred, and
incomplete, is to absorb into my nature all that has been done to me, to
make it part of me, to accept it without complaint, fear, or reluctance.
The supreme vice is shallowness. Whatever is realised is right.
When first I was put into prison some people advised me to try and forget
who I was. It was ruinous advice. It is only by realising what I am
that I have found comfort of any kind. Now I am advised by others to try
on my release to forget that I have ever been in a prison at all. I know
that would be equally fatal. It would mean that I would always be
haunted by an intolerable sense of disgrace, and that those things that
are meant for me as much as for anybody else--the beauty of the sun and
moon, the pageant of the seasons, the music of daybreak and the silence
of great nights, the rain falling through the leaves, or the dew creeping
over the grass and making it silver--would all be tainted for me, and
lose their healing power, and their power of communicating joy. To
regret one's own experiences is to arrest one's own development. To deny
one's own experiences is to put a lie into the lips of one's own life. It
is no less than a denial of the soul.
For just as the body absorbs things of all kinds, things common and
unclean no less than those that the priest or a vision has cleansed, and
converts them into swiftness or strength, into the play of beautiful
muscles and the moulding of fair flesh, into the curves and colours of
the hair, the lips, the eye; so the soul in its turn has its nutritive
functions also, and can transform into noble moods of thought and
passions of high import what in itself is base, cruel and degrading; nay,
more, may find in these its most august modes of assertion, and can often
reveal itself most perfectly through what was intended to desecrate or
destroy.
The fact of my having been the common prisoner of a common gaol I must
frankly accept, and, curious as it may seem, one of the things I shall
have to teach myself is not to be ashamed of it. I must accept it as a
punishment, and if one is ashamed of having been punished, one might just
as well never have been punished at all.
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
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Title: De Profundis
Author: Oscar Wilde
Release Date: April 13, 2007 [eBook #921]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII)
***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DE PROFUNDIS***
Transcribed from the 1913 Methuen & Co. edition by David Price, email
ccx074@pglaf. org. Note that later editions of De Profundis contained
more material. The most complete editions are still in copyright in the
U. S. A.
DE PROFUNDIS
. . . Suffering is one very long moment. We cannot divide it by seasons.
We can only record its moods, and chronicle their return. With us time
itself does not progress. It revolves. It seems to circle round one
centre of pain. The paralysing immobility of a life every circumstance
of which is regulated after an unchangeable pattern, so that we eat and
drink and lie down and pray, or kneel at least for prayer, according to
the inflexible laws of an iron formula: this immobile quality, that makes
each dreadful day in the very minutest detail like its brother, seems to
communicate itself to those external forces the very essence of whose
existence is ceaseless change. Of seed-time or harvest, of the reapers
bending over the corn, or the grape gatherers threading through the
vines, of the grass in the orchard made white with broken blossoms or
strewn with fallen fruit: of these we know nothing and can know nothing.
For us there is only one season, the season of sorrow. The very sun and
moon seem taken from us. Outside, the day may be blue and gold, but the
light that creeps down through the thickly-muffled glass of the small
iron-barred window beneath which one sits is grey and niggard. It is
always twilight in one's cell, as it is always twilight in one's heart.
And in the sphere of thought, no less than in the sphere of time, motion
is no more. The thing that you personally have long ago forgotten, or
can easily forget, is happening to me now, and will happen to me again to-
morrow. Remember this, and you will be able to understand a little of
why I am writing, and in this manner writing. . . .
A week later, I am transferred here. Three more months go over and my
mother dies. No one knew how deeply I loved and honoured her. Her death
was terrible to me; but I, once a lord of language, have no words in
which to express my anguish and my shame. She and my father had
bequeathed me a name they had made noble and honoured, not merely in
literature, art, archaeology, and science, but in the public history of
my own country, in its evolution as a nation. I had disgraced that name
eternally. I had made it a low by-word among low people. I had dragged
it through the very mire. I had given it to brutes that they might make
it brutal, and to fools that they might turn it into a synonym for folly.
What I suffered then, and still suffer, is not for pen to write or paper
to record. My wife, always kind and gentle to me, rather than that I
should hear the news from indifferent lips, travelled, ill as she was,
all the way from Genoa to England to break to me herself the tidings of
so irreparable, so irremediable, a loss. Messages of sympathy reached me
from all who had still affection for me. Even people who had not known
me personally, hearing that a new sorrow had broken into my life, wrote
to ask that some expression of their condolence should be conveyed to me.
. . .
Three months go over. The calendar of my daily conduct and labour that
hangs on the outside of my cell door, with my name and sentence written
upon it, tells me that it is May. . . .
Prosperity, pleasure and success, may be rough of grain and common in
fibre, but sorrow is the most sensitive of all created things. There is
nothing that stirs in the whole world of thought to which sorrow does not
vibrate in terrible and exquisite pulsation. The thin beaten-out leaf of
tremulous gold that chronicles the direction of forces the eye cannot see
is in comparison coarse. It is a wound that bleeds when any hand but
that of love touches it, and even then must bleed again, though not in
pain.
Where there is sorrow there is holy ground. Some day people will realise
what that means. They will know nothing of life till they do,--and
natures like his can realise it. When I was brought down from my prison
to the Court of Bankruptcy, between two policemen,--waited in the long
dreary corridor that, before the whole crowd, whom an action so sweet and
simple hushed into silence, he might gravely raise his hat to me, as,
handcuffed and with bowed head, I passed him by. Men have gone to heaven
for smaller things than that. It was in this spirit, and with this mode
of love, that the saints knelt down to wash the feet of the poor, or
stooped to kiss the leper on the cheek. I have never said one single
word to him about what he did. I do not know to the present moment
whether he is aware that I was even conscious of his action. It is not a
thing for which one can render formal thanks in formal words. I store it
in the treasure-house of my heart. I keep it there as a secret debt that
I am glad to think I can never possibly repay. It is embalmed and kept
sweet by the myrrh and cassia of many tears. When wisdom has been
profitless to me, philosophy barren, and the proverbs and phrases of
those who have sought to give me consolation as dust and ashes in my
mouth, the memory of that little, lovely, silent act of love has unsealed
for me all the wells of pity: made the desert blossom like a rose, and
brought me out of the bitterness of lonely exile into harmony with the
wounded, broken, and great heart of the world. When people are able to
understand, not merely how beautiful ---'s action was, but why it meant
so much to me, and always will mean so much, then, perhaps, they will
realise how and in what spirit they should approach me. . . .
The poor are wise, more charitable, more kind, more sensitive than we
are. In their eyes prison is a tragedy in a man's life, a misfortune, a
casuality, something that calls for sympathy in others. They speak of
one who is in prison as of one who is 'in trouble' simply. It is the
phrase they always use, and the expression has the perfect wisdom of love
in it. With people of our own rank it is different. With us, prison
makes a man a pariah. I, and such as I am, have hardly any right to air
and sun. Our presence taints the pleasures of others. We are unwelcome
when we reappear. To revisit the glimpses of the moon is not for us. Our
very children are taken away. Those lovely links with humanity are
broken. We are doomed to be solitary, while our sons still live. We are
denied the one thing that might heal us and keep us, that might bring
balm to the bruised heart, and peace to the soul in pain. . . .
I must say to myself that I ruined myself, and that nobody great or small
can be ruined except by his own hand. I am quite ready to say so. I am
trying to say so, though they may not think it at the present moment.
This pitiless indictment I bring without pity against myself. Terrible
as was what the world did to me, what I did to myself was far more
terrible still.
I was a man who stood in symbolic relations to the art and culture of my
age. I had realised this for myself at the very dawn of my manhood, and
had forced my age to realise it afterwards. Few men hold such a position
in their own lifetime, and have it so acknowledged. It is usually
discerned, if discerned at all, by the historian, or the critic, long
after both the man and his age have passed away. With me it was
different. I felt it myself, and made others feel it. Byron was a
symbolic figure, but his relations were to the passion of his age and its
weariness of passion. Mine were to something more noble, more permanent,
of more vital issue, of larger scope.
The gods had given me almost everything. But I let myself be lured into
long spells of senseless and sensual ease. I amused myself with being a
_flaneur_, a dandy, a man of fashion. I surrounded myself with the
smaller natures and the meaner minds. I became the spendthrift of my own
genius, and to waste an eternal youth gave me a curious joy. Tired of
being on the heights, I deliberately went to the depths in the search for
new sensation. What the paradox was to me in the sphere of thought,
perversity became to me in the sphere of passion. Desire, at the end,
was a malady, or a madness, or both. I grew careless of the lives of
others. I took pleasure where it pleased me, and passed on. I forgot
that every little action of the common day makes or unmakes character,
and that therefore what one has done in the secret chamber one has some
day to cry aloud on the housetop. I ceased to be lord over myself. I
was no longer the captain of my soul, and did not know it. I allowed
pleasure to dominate me. I ended in horrible disgrace. There is only
one thing for me now, absolute humility.
I have lain in prison for nearly two years. Out of my nature has come
wild despair; an abandonment to grief that was piteous even to look at;
terrible and impotent rage; bitterness and scorn; anguish that wept
aloud; misery that could find no voice; sorrow that was dumb. I have
passed through every possible mood of suffering. Better than Wordsworth
himself I know what Wordsworth meant when he said--
'Suffering is permanent, obscure, and dark
And has the nature of infinity. '
But while there were times when I rejoiced in the idea that my sufferings
were to be endless, I could not bear them to be without meaning. Now I
find hidden somewhere away in my nature something that tells me that
nothing in the whole world is meaningless, and suffering least of all.
That something hidden away in my nature, like a treasure in a field, is
Humility.
It is the last thing left in me, and the best: the ultimate discovery at
which I have arrived, the starting-point for a fresh development. It has
come to me right out of myself, so I know that it has come at the proper
time. It could not have come before, nor later. Had any one told me of
it, I would have rejected it. Had it been brought to me, I would have
refused it. As I found it, I want to keep it. I must do so. It is the
one thing that has in it the elements of life, of a new life, _Vita
Nuova_ for me. Of all things it is the strangest. One cannot acquire
it, except by surrendering everything that one has. It is only when one
has lost all things, that one knows that one possesses it.
Now I have realised that it is in me, I see quite clearly what I ought to
do; in fact, must do. And when I use such a phrase as that, I need not
say that I am not alluding to any external sanction or command. I admit
none. I am far more of an individualist than I ever was. Nothing seems
to me of the smallest value except what one gets out of oneself. My
nature is seeking a fresh mode of self-realisation. That is all I am
concerned with. And the first thing that I have got to do is to free
myself from any possible bitterness of feeling against the world.
I am completely penniless, and absolutely homeless. Yet there are worse
things in the world than that. I am quite candid when I say that rather
than go out from this prison with bitterness in my heart against the
world, I would gladly and readily beg my bread from door to door. If I
got nothing from the house of the rich I would get something at the house
of the poor. Those who have much are often greedy; those who have little
always share. I would not a bit mind sleeping in the cool grass in
summer, and when winter came on sheltering myself by the warm
close-thatched rick, or under the penthouse of a great barn, provided I
had love in my heart. The external things of life seem to me now of no
importance at all. You can see to what intensity of individualism I have
arrived--or am arriving rather, for the journey is long, and 'where I
walk there are thorns. '
Of course I know that to ask alms on the highway is not to be my lot, and
that if ever I lie in the cool grass at night-time it will be to write
sonnets to the moon. When I go out of prison, R--- will be waiting for
me on the other side of the big iron-studded gate, and he is the symbol,
not merely of his own affection, but of the affection of many others
besides. I believe I am to have enough to live on for about eighteen
months at any rate, so that if I may not write beautiful books, I may at
least read beautiful books; and what joy can be greater? After that, I
hope to be able to recreate my creative faculty.
But were things different: had I not a friend left in the world; were
there not a single house open to me in pity; had I to accept the wallet
and ragged cloak of sheer penury: as long as I am free from all
resentment, hardness and scorn, I would be able to face the life with
much more calm and confidence than I would were my body in purple and
fine linen, and the soul within me sick with hate.
And I really shall have no difficulty. When you really want love you
will find it waiting for you.
I need not say that my task does not end there. It would be
comparatively easy if it did. There is much more before me. I have
hills far steeper to climb, valleys much darker to pass through. And I
have to get it all out of myself. Neither religion, morality, nor reason
can help me at all.
Morality does not help me. I am a born antinomian. I am one of those
who are made for exceptions, not for laws. But while I see that there is
nothing wrong in what one does, I see that there is something wrong in
what one becomes. It is well to have learned that.
Religion does not help me. The faith that others give to what is unseen,
I give to what one can touch, and look at. My gods dwell in temples made
with hands; and within the circle of actual experience is my creed made
perfect and complete: too complete, it may be, for like many or all of
those who have placed their heaven in this earth, I have found in it not
merely the beauty of heaven, but the horror of hell also. When I think
about religion at all, I feel as if I would like to found an order for
those who _cannot_ believe: the Confraternity of the Faithless, one might
call it, where on an altar, on which no taper burned, a priest, in whose
heart peace had no dwelling, might celebrate with unblessed bread and a
chalice empty of wine. Every thing to be true must become a religion.
And agnosticism should have its ritual no less than faith. It has sown
its martyrs, it should reap its saints, and praise God daily for having
hidden Himself from man. But whether it be faith or agnosticism, it must
be nothing external to me. Its symbols must be of my own creating. Only
that is spiritual which makes its own form. If I may not find its secret
within myself, I shall never find it: if I have not got it already, it
will never come to me.
Reason does not help me. It tells me that the laws under which I am
convicted are wrong and unjust laws, and the system under which I have
suffered a wrong and unjust system. But, somehow, I have got to make
both of these things just and right to me. And exactly as in Art one is
only concerned with what a particular thing is at a particular moment to
oneself, so it is also in the ethical evolution of one's character. I
have got to make everything that has happened to me good for me. The
plank bed, the loathsome food, the hard ropes shredded into oakum till
one's finger-tips grow dull with pain, the menial offices with which each
day begins and finishes, the harsh orders that routine seems to
necessitate, the dreadful dress that makes sorrow grotesque to look at,
the silence, the solitude, the shame--each and all of these things I have
to transform into a spiritual experience. There is not a single
degradation of the body which I must not try and make into a
spiritualising of the soul.
I want to get to the point when I shall be able to say quite simply, and
without affectation that the two great turning-points in my life were
when my father sent me to Oxford, and when society sent me to prison. I
will not say that prison is the best thing that could have happened to
me: for that phrase would savour of too great bitterness towards myself.
I would sooner say, or hear it said of me, that I was so typical a child
of my age, that in my perversity, and for that perversity's sake, I
turned the good things of my life to evil, and the evil things of my life
to good.
What is said, however, by myself or by others, matters little. The
important thing, the thing that lies before me, the thing that I have to
do, if the brief remainder of my days is not to be maimed, marred, and
incomplete, is to absorb into my nature all that has been done to me, to
make it part of me, to accept it without complaint, fear, or reluctance.
The supreme vice is shallowness. Whatever is realised is right.
When first I was put into prison some people advised me to try and forget
who I was. It was ruinous advice. It is only by realising what I am
that I have found comfort of any kind. Now I am advised by others to try
on my release to forget that I have ever been in a prison at all.
The most complete editions are still in copyright in the
U. S. A.
DE PROFUNDIS
. . . Suffering is one very long moment. We cannot divide it by seasons.
We can only record its moods, and chronicle their return. With us time
itself does not progress. It revolves. It seems to circle round one
centre of pain. The paralysing immobility of a life every circumstance
of which is regulated after an unchangeable pattern, so that we eat and
drink and lie down and pray, or kneel at least for prayer, according to
the inflexible laws of an iron formula: this immobile quality, that makes
each dreadful day in the very minutest detail like its brother, seems to
communicate itself to those external forces the very essence of whose
existence is ceaseless change. Of seed-time or harvest, of the reapers
bending over the corn, or the grape gatherers threading through the
vines, of the grass in the orchard made white with broken blossoms or
strewn with fallen fruit: of these we know nothing and can know nothing.
For us there is only one season, the season of sorrow. The very sun and
moon seem taken from us. Outside, the day may be blue and gold, but the
light that creeps down through the thickly-muffled glass of the small
iron-barred window beneath which one sits is grey and niggard. It is
always twilight in one's cell, as it is always twilight in one's heart.
And in the sphere of thought, no less than in the sphere of time, motion
is no more. The thing that you personally have long ago forgotten, or
can easily forget, is happening to me now, and will happen to me again to-
morrow. Remember this, and you will be able to understand a little of
why I am writing, and in this manner writing. . . .
A week later, I am transferred here. Three more months go over and my
mother dies. No one knew how deeply I loved and honoured her. Her death
was terrible to me; but I, once a lord of language, have no words in
which to express my anguish and my shame. She and my father had
bequeathed me a name they had made noble and honoured, not merely in
literature, art, archaeology, and science, but in the public history of
my own country, in its evolution as a nation. I had disgraced that name
eternally. I had made it a low by-word among low people. I had dragged
it through the very mire. I had given it to brutes that they might make
it brutal, and to fools that they might turn it into a synonym for folly.
What I suffered then, and still suffer, is not for pen to write or paper
to record. My wife, always kind and gentle to me, rather than that I
should hear the news from indifferent lips, travelled, ill as she was,
all the way from Genoa to England to break to me herself the tidings of
so irreparable, so irremediable, a loss. Messages of sympathy reached me
from all who had still affection for me. Even people who had not known
me personally, hearing that a new sorrow had broken into my life, wrote
to ask that some expression of their condolence should be conveyed to me.
. . .
Three months go over. The calendar of my daily conduct and labour that
hangs on the outside of my cell door, with my name and sentence written
upon it, tells me that it is May. . . .
Prosperity, pleasure and success, may be rough of grain and common in
fibre, but sorrow is the most sensitive of all created things. There is
nothing that stirs in the whole world of thought to which sorrow does not
vibrate in terrible and exquisite pulsation. The thin beaten-out leaf of
tremulous gold that chronicles the direction of forces the eye cannot see
is in comparison coarse. It is a wound that bleeds when any hand but
that of love touches it, and even then must bleed again, though not in
pain.
Where there is sorrow there is holy ground. Some day people will realise
what that means. They will know nothing of life till they do,--and
natures like his can realise it. When I was brought down from my prison
to the Court of Bankruptcy, between two policemen,--waited in the long
dreary corridor that, before the whole crowd, whom an action so sweet and
simple hushed into silence, he might gravely raise his hat to me, as,
handcuffed and with bowed head, I passed him by. Men have gone to heaven
for smaller things than that. It was in this spirit, and with this mode
of love, that the saints knelt down to wash the feet of the poor, or
stooped to kiss the leper on the cheek. I have never said one single
word to him about what he did. I do not know to the present moment
whether he is aware that I was even conscious of his action. It is not a
thing for which one can render formal thanks in formal words. I store it
in the treasure-house of my heart. I keep it there as a secret debt that
I am glad to think I can never possibly repay. It is embalmed and kept
sweet by the myrrh and cassia of many tears. When wisdom has been
profitless to me, philosophy barren, and the proverbs and phrases of
those who have sought to give me consolation as dust and ashes in my
mouth, the memory of that little, lovely, silent act of love has unsealed
for me all the wells of pity: made the desert blossom like a rose, and
brought me out of the bitterness of lonely exile into harmony with the
wounded, broken, and great heart of the world. When people are able to
understand, not merely how beautiful ---'s action was, but why it meant
so much to me, and always will mean so much, then, perhaps, they will
realise how and in what spirit they should approach me. . . .
The poor are wise, more charitable, more kind, more sensitive than we
are. In their eyes prison is a tragedy in a man's life, a misfortune, a
casuality, something that calls for sympathy in others. They speak of
one who is in prison as of one who is 'in trouble' simply. It is the
phrase they always use, and the expression has the perfect wisdom of love
in it. With people of our own rank it is different. With us, prison
makes a man a pariah. I, and such as I am, have hardly any right to air
and sun. Our presence taints the pleasures of others. We are unwelcome
when we reappear. To revisit the glimpses of the moon is not for us. Our
very children are taken away. Those lovely links with humanity are
broken. We are doomed to be solitary, while our sons still live. We are
denied the one thing that might heal us and keep us, that might bring
balm to the bruised heart, and peace to the soul in pain. . . .
I must say to myself that I ruined myself, and that nobody great or small
can be ruined except by his own hand. I am quite ready to say so. I am
trying to say so, though they may not think it at the present moment.
This pitiless indictment I bring without pity against myself. Terrible
as was what the world did to me, what I did to myself was far more
terrible still.
I was a man who stood in symbolic relations to the art and culture of my
age. I had realised this for myself at the very dawn of my manhood, and
had forced my age to realise it afterwards. Few men hold such a position
in their own lifetime, and have it so acknowledged. It is usually
discerned, if discerned at all, by the historian, or the critic, long
after both the man and his age have passed away. With me it was
different. I felt it myself, and made others feel it. Byron was a
symbolic figure, but his relations were to the passion of his age and its
weariness of passion. Mine were to something more noble, more permanent,
of more vital issue, of larger scope.
The gods had given me almost everything. But I let myself be lured into
long spells of senseless and sensual ease. I amused myself with being a
_flaneur_, a dandy, a man of fashion. I surrounded myself with the
smaller natures and the meaner minds. I became the spendthrift of my own
genius, and to waste an eternal youth gave me a curious joy. Tired of
being on the heights, I deliberately went to the depths in the search for
new sensation. What the paradox was to me in the sphere of thought,
perversity became to me in the sphere of passion. Desire, at the end,
was a malady, or a madness, or both. I grew careless of the lives of
others. I took pleasure where it pleased me, and passed on. I forgot
that every little action of the common day makes or unmakes character,
and that therefore what one has done in the secret chamber one has some
day to cry aloud on the housetop. I ceased to be lord over myself. I
was no longer the captain of my soul, and did not know it. I allowed
pleasure to dominate me. I ended in horrible disgrace. There is only
one thing for me now, absolute humility.
I have lain in prison for nearly two years. Out of my nature has come
wild despair; an abandonment to grief that was piteous even to look at;
terrible and impotent rage; bitterness and scorn; anguish that wept
aloud; misery that could find no voice; sorrow that was dumb. I have
passed through every possible mood of suffering. Better than Wordsworth
himself I know what Wordsworth meant when he said--
'Suffering is permanent, obscure, and dark
And has the nature of infinity. '
But while there were times when I rejoiced in the idea that my sufferings
were to be endless, I could not bear them to be without meaning. Now I
find hidden somewhere away in my nature something that tells me that
nothing in the whole world is meaningless, and suffering least of all.
That something hidden away in my nature, like a treasure in a field, is
Humility.
It is the last thing left in me, and the best: the ultimate discovery at
which I have arrived, the starting-point for a fresh development. It has
come to me right out of myself, so I know that it has come at the proper
time. It could not have come before, nor later. Had any one told me of
it, I would have rejected it. Had it been brought to me, I would have
refused it. As I found it, I want to keep it. I must do so. It is the
one thing that has in it the elements of life, of a new life, _Vita
Nuova_ for me. Of all things it is the strangest. One cannot acquire
it, except by surrendering everything that one has. It is only when one
has lost all things, that one knows that one possesses it.
Now I have realised that it is in me, I see quite clearly what I ought to
do; in fact, must do. And when I use such a phrase as that, I need not
say that I am not alluding to any external sanction or command. I admit
none. I am far more of an individualist than I ever was. Nothing seems
to me of the smallest value except what one gets out of oneself. My
nature is seeking a fresh mode of self-realisation. That is all I am
concerned with. And the first thing that I have got to do is to free
myself from any possible bitterness of feeling against the world.
I am completely penniless, and absolutely homeless. Yet there are worse
things in the world than that. I am quite candid when I say that rather
than go out from this prison with bitterness in my heart against the
world, I would gladly and readily beg my bread from door to door. If I
got nothing from the house of the rich I would get something at the house
of the poor. Those who have much are often greedy; those who have little
always share. I would not a bit mind sleeping in the cool grass in
summer, and when winter came on sheltering myself by the warm
close-thatched rick, or under the penthouse of a great barn, provided I
had love in my heart. The external things of life seem to me now of no
importance at all. You can see to what intensity of individualism I have
arrived--or am arriving rather, for the journey is long, and 'where I
walk there are thorns. '
Of course I know that to ask alms on the highway is not to be my lot, and
that if ever I lie in the cool grass at night-time it will be to write
sonnets to the moon. When I go out of prison, R--- will be waiting for
me on the other side of the big iron-studded gate, and he is the symbol,
not merely of his own affection, but of the affection of many others
besides. I believe I am to have enough to live on for about eighteen
months at any rate, so that if I may not write beautiful books, I may at
least read beautiful books; and what joy can be greater? After that, I
hope to be able to recreate my creative faculty.
But were things different: had I not a friend left in the world; were
there not a single house open to me in pity; had I to accept the wallet
and ragged cloak of sheer penury: as long as I am free from all
resentment, hardness and scorn, I would be able to face the life with
much more calm and confidence than I would were my body in purple and
fine linen, and the soul within me sick with hate.
And I really shall have no difficulty. When you really want love you
will find it waiting for you.
I need not say that my task does not end there. It would be
comparatively easy if it did. There is much more before me. I have
hills far steeper to climb, valleys much darker to pass through. And I
have to get it all out of myself. Neither religion, morality, nor reason
can help me at all.
Morality does not help me. I am a born antinomian. I am one of those
who are made for exceptions, not for laws. But while I see that there is
nothing wrong in what one does, I see that there is something wrong in
what one becomes. It is well to have learned that.
Religion does not help me. The faith that others give to what is unseen,
I give to what one can touch, and look at. My gods dwell in temples made
with hands; and within the circle of actual experience is my creed made
perfect and complete: too complete, it may be, for like many or all of
those who have placed their heaven in this earth, I have found in it not
merely the beauty of heaven, but the horror of hell also. When I think
about religion at all, I feel as if I would like to found an order for
those who _cannot_ believe: the Confraternity of the Faithless, one might
call it, where on an altar, on which no taper burned, a priest, in whose
heart peace had no dwelling, might celebrate with unblessed bread and a
chalice empty of wine. Every thing to be true must become a religion.
And agnosticism should have its ritual no less than faith. It has sown
its martyrs, it should reap its saints, and praise God daily for having
hidden Himself from man. But whether it be faith or agnosticism, it must
be nothing external to me. Its symbols must be of my own creating. Only
that is spiritual which makes its own form. If I may not find its secret
within myself, I shall never find it: if I have not got it already, it
will never come to me.
Reason does not help me. It tells me that the laws under which I am
convicted are wrong and unjust laws, and the system under which I have
suffered a wrong and unjust system. But, somehow, I have got to make
both of these things just and right to me. And exactly as in Art one is
only concerned with what a particular thing is at a particular moment to
oneself, so it is also in the ethical evolution of one's character. I
have got to make everything that has happened to me good for me. The
plank bed, the loathsome food, the hard ropes shredded into oakum till
one's finger-tips grow dull with pain, the menial offices with which each
day begins and finishes, the harsh orders that routine seems to
necessitate, the dreadful dress that makes sorrow grotesque to look at,
the silence, the solitude, the shame--each and all of these things I have
to transform into a spiritual experience. There is not a single
degradation of the body which I must not try and make into a
spiritualising of the soul.
I want to get to the point when I shall be able to say quite simply, and
without affectation that the two great turning-points in my life were
when my father sent me to Oxford, and when society sent me to prison. I
will not say that prison is the best thing that could have happened to
me: for that phrase would savour of too great bitterness towards myself.
I would sooner say, or hear it said of me, that I was so typical a child
of my age, that in my perversity, and for that perversity's sake, I
turned the good things of my life to evil, and the evil things of my life
to good.
What is said, however, by myself or by others, matters little. The
important thing, the thing that lies before me, the thing that I have to
do, if the brief remainder of my days is not to be maimed, marred, and
incomplete, is to absorb into my nature all that has been done to me, to
make it part of me, to accept it without complaint, fear, or reluctance.
The supreme vice is shallowness. Whatever is realised is right.
When first I was put into prison some people advised me to try and forget
who I was. It was ruinous advice. It is only by realising what I am
that I have found comfort of any kind. Now I am advised by others to try
on my release to forget that I have ever been in a prison at all. I know
that would be equally fatal. It would mean that I would always be
haunted by an intolerable sense of disgrace, and that those things that
are meant for me as much as for anybody else--the beauty of the sun and
moon, the pageant of the seasons, the music of daybreak and the silence
of great nights, the rain falling through the leaves, or the dew creeping
over the grass and making it silver--would all be tainted for me, and
lose their healing power, and their power of communicating joy. To
regret one's own experiences is to arrest one's own development. To deny
one's own experiences is to put a lie into the lips of one's own life. It
is no less than a denial of the soul.
For just as the body absorbs things of all kinds, things common and
unclean no less than those that the priest or a vision has cleansed, and
converts them into swiftness or strength, into the play of beautiful
muscles and the moulding of fair flesh, into the curves and colours of
the hair, the lips, the eye; so the soul in its turn has its nutritive
functions also, and can transform into noble moods of thought and
passions of high import what in itself is base, cruel and degrading; nay,
more, may find in these its most august modes of assertion, and can often
reveal itself most perfectly through what was intended to desecrate or
destroy.
The fact of my having been the common prisoner of a common gaol I must
frankly accept, and, curious as it may seem, one of the things I shall
have to teach myself is not to be ashamed of it. I must accept it as a
punishment, and if one is ashamed of having been punished, one might just
as well never have been punished at all.
