I appreciated Oscar Wilde after my visit to Dublin, Ireland last week. From his childhood home (which is now American College) and Trinity College (where he had his education), I had a glimpse of the life of the popular Irish writer and playright whose works sit quietly in my bookshelf. When I returned home, I got to take a look Wilde’s bio, who I had not given keen interest at though I had appreciated his works in my earlier years.
“The Picture of Dorian Gray” and “The Happy Prince and Other Stories” were just some of his works that got me drawn because of the flamboyance of his storytelling. Most of them being tragic, provoking thoughts on the irony of humanity: the tendencies for us to forget and be ungrateful at the sacrifices of another. His novel “The Picture of Dorian Gray”, on another note, depicts how man can be deceitful, as well as how Wilde attacks the hypocrisy of upper-class Victorian lifestyle, though stylistic as he was. But somehow, his reflective views had retaliated back at him at his later years.
Despite of his popularity and lavish lifestyle, Wilde died destitute. After being imprisoned by the father of his lover, Lord Alfred Douglas, he was left on his own. It breaks my heart how this witty and celebrated writer was left with almost no one at his deathbed.
Somehow, I felt his loneliness at his final days. Involved in homosexuality, he must have searched for something missing in his heart. He was religious though, being brought up with a strong Irish Catholic background. But sadly, this missing piece must not have been found.
We all have heart issues. This gifted man himself, who had everything in the world once, have looked for real love. We’re all looking for it. In the end, he tried to search for it, especially to the people once close to him. But no one can give it because only the Lord can.
Fame can never attest to everything. Perhaps, if one person might have shown compassion to him, he must have had everything. Love is the one thing more priceless than anything in the world. And it’s one thing we cannot comprehend fully, too.
Wilde never returned to Ireland at the end of his life. Tragically, he did not find home in his final destination, but wandered in France to search for his soul. Still, he deserves the accolades of being a gifted writer himself. He has contributed so much in the literary world and his works has not failed to move the generation to think on humanity itself. For once, Dublin has made alive in me a long lost genius who had never returned home…and reminded me that home can be found in those who love us most.