In “De profundis”, very much of what was whispering between the lines of his literary works appears guilelessly before your gaze.
Is it possible to put the scales under the scrutiny of the appraiser – with the mind washed by one’s own experience – someone else’s soul? Someone else’s letters, especially personal ones, especially those written at moments of angry happiness, extreme suffering, blinding hatred, dimly smoldering insult, greedy awareness of the truth, are always a little ashamed, as if you involuntarily became an uninvited guest, frozen in front of the shimmering light from the keyhole, sometimes enviable, in places painfully, kolko, and sometimes it’s just boring. And the last feeling is shameful, as for me.
There is no right for the observer, climbing his elbow into the blood of someone else’s inside, expressing dissatisfaction with the pulsation under his fingers or spattering the white cuffs. After all, as if he did not try to understand a man, no matter how passionately he did not want to penetrate into his mind and see the world with a stranger’s gaze – everything will be exactly pricked by the prism of his own memories and feelings.
Limited space and unlimited time has to think about, to search for answers to the thoughts put aside in free thought, feeding the anguish, blindness in one and enlightenment in the other. In the cold confinement of the prison, Wilde could hardly get out of the pen something less wonderful and sincere. I’m scared, but also curious to imagine what happened in the hundreds of other pages written, which we will never see, signed by the elegant “Dear Bozi!”.
A letter written by Wilde to the man to whom he was so devoted, and who so selflessly betrayed him, layer by layer reveals the personality of Alfred, the personality of Oscar himself. Of course, this is not an impartial document, detachedly stating the events that led Oscar Wilde to poverty, dishonor and imprisonment. One can not believe unconditionally every line and turn a blind eye to the emotions in which this letter was written, to events that tore his soul to shreds, to his partiality to the addressee, after all. “De profundis” is not a savoring of relations with Alfred, not an attempt to discredit him or to show the true face of an intriguing poet to the world.