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Original paragraph in
Evening Herald - Thursday, April 11, 1895
Evening Herald - Thursday, April 11, 1895
Most similar paragraph from
Truth - Thursday, April 11, 1895
Truth - Thursday, April 11, 1895
Difference
Writing about Oscar Wilde, Mr Labouchere says:—"I have known him, off and on, for years. Clever and witty he unquestionably is, but I
have always regarded him as somewhat wrong in the head, for his craving after notoriety seemed to me a positive craze. There was nothing that he would not
do to attract attention.
"When Wilde went over to New York he went about dressed in a bottle-green coat with a waist up to his shoulders. When he entered a
restaurant people threw things at him. When he drove in the evening to deliver his lectures the windows of his carriage were broken, until a policeman
rode on each side of it. Far from objecting to all this, it filled him with delighted complacency. ‘Insult me, throw mad at me, but only look at me,'
seemed to be his creed.
"So strange and wondrous is Wilde’s mind when in an abnormal condition, that it would not surprise me (continues Mr Labouchere) if he
were deriving a keen enjoyment from a position which most people, whether really innocent or guilty, would prefer to die rather than occupy. He must have
known in what a glasshouse he lived when he challenged investigation in a court of justice. After he had done this he went abroad? Why did he not stay
abroad? The possibilities of a prison may not be pleasing to him, but I believe that the notoriety that has overtaken him has such a charm for him that it
outweighs everything else.
In the early days of the cult of aestheticism someone asked Oscar Wilde how a man of his undoubted capacity could make such a fool of
himself. He gave this explanation. He had written, he said, a book of poems, and he believed in their excellence. In vain he went from publisher to
publisher asking them to bring them out; not one would even read them, for he was unknown. In order to find a publisher he felt that he must do something
to become a personality. So he hit upon aestheticism. It succeeded. People talked about him; they invited him to their houses as a sort of lion. He then
took his poems to a publisher, who—still without reading them—gladly accepted them.
I remember, in the early days of the cult of aestheticism, hearing some one ask him how a man of his undoubted capacity could make such a
fool of himself. He gave this explanation. He had written, he said, a book of poems, and he believed in their excellence. In vain he went from publisher
to publisher asking them to bring them out; not one would even read them, for he was unknown. In order to find a publisher he felt that he must do
something to become a personality. So he hit upon aestheticism. It succeeded. People talked about him; they invited him to their houses as a sort of lion.
He then took his poems to a publisher, who—still without reading them—gladly accepted them.