Wednesday, December 21, 2016


Everything has been taken from me. My honour, my will to live, my happiness. The only thing I have left here in prison is time. Time to think and time to write.

I spend hours and hours reminiscing, recalling the past, those days when I was a free man.

Just now, I was remembering Mum. What a clever woman she was! She used to read poetry to Willie and me and we loved every word that came out of her pretty mouth.

Dad was a great man too. I’ll never forget the day he was knighted. He was so proud! And he deserved to be. Even though he could have just been a doctor for the rich, he chose to help the poor as well.

I often remember the day my little sister Isola died. It was so very sad, she was only nine… I wrote a poem for her, never to forget her.

Tread lightly, she is near
Under the snow
Speak gently, she can hear
the daisies grow”

I was blessed with a great education. I had a French bonne and a German governess. At  first I resented them, but soon I got used to the strange sounds they made whenever they opened their mouths.

How I wish I could go back to college! Those were the best years of my life. I loved the life in Oxford, the excitement and the mystery of being a member of the Apollo Masonic Lodge…

1882 was a great year. One that I will never forget. I travelled around America and met all kinds of people. I drank whiskey with miners and was welcomed in salons. Some intellectuals criticized me, but I just ignored them.

My thoughts turn to dark moments in my life, but I try to cheer myself up not to go crazy in here.

I think of my dear Constance and the children. How much I loved Cyril and Vyvyan! I used to write stories for them. Their favorites were The Selfish Giant and The Happy Prince, even though they always told me they were too sad.

Before everything went wrong, I was a very famous, influential man. 

My novel, The Picture of Dorian Grey, was criticized by reviewers, but my plays were very successful.

These are some of the things I think about when I’m not writing or grieving, but most of all I remember Bosie. How much I loved him! I indulged his every whim. I’ve never regretted having met him, even if I’m here because of our relationship.

I guess I cannot complain. Because of my delicate health, my days of hard labour are over and here in Reading Gaol I’m allowed pen and paper.

I’ve started writing the darkest piece of my life. It’s called De Profundis.

One day I’ll be a free man again. One day I’ll breathe pure scented air. And I hope other men in the future will be able to live their lives the way they want without being thrown in prison like me. Just because I loved too much.

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