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The Lone Wolf and I have been living a somewhat nomadic life since November 30, 2002, when we hopped on a plane to Paris. It was an emotional day. We had left our dog Snapp and cat Cleo at my mother's two days before--on Thanksgiving--though we hadn't thought we had time to have lunch with her. She and I both cried as L.W. drove us away, but we had so much left to do. My sense of efficiency and the illusion of time as an endless commodity betrayed me in these moments.
As is the way of life, it was the last time that I saw my mother. She dropped dead a few months later, and I was left to mourn her as I had my father and younger brother. My father had already been dead more than twice as long as I had known him; my younger brother for 13 long years.
There is more to tell in this story. But for now I jump ahead.
We returned to Arkansas a few months later to close her estate--to pack up, sell, throw away, deal with the treasures and detritus of her life as well as that of my entire family, whose flame she had been the keeper of. It was a torturous few months, and among the thousands of objects I had to consider were the books in my father's library. Even now I am haunted by some things I reluctantly let go.
What is a library if not an intimate expression of one's self, a record of the stories, philosophies, theories, art, design, and ideas that inform our consciousnesses. We can learn to see through the eyes of another by looking at the books on his or her shelves.
One of the books that I not only kept but brought back with me to France is my attorney father's The 3 Trials of Oscar Wilde with an introduction by H. Montgomery Hyde and a portrait of Oscar Wilde (pict
ured above) by Toulouse Lautrec (photo at left) at the time of the trials. The two men were friends which seems a natural pairing. Both came from aristocratic families, whether titled like Count Lautrec or intellectual aristocracy like Wilde's parents. Despite their cultivation and advantages, the two men were both freaks in the world in which they lived, and must have understood each other in deep and meaningful ways.
Oscar Fingal O'Flahertie Wills Wilde (16 October 1854 – 30
November 1900) is one of my neighbors at the Cimetière du Père-Lachaise and has a steady stream of visitors who come to pay their respects in a very personal manner.
Writer/poet/aesthete Wilde was born in Dublin and educated first at Trinity College and then at Magdalen College, Oxford, as he began cracking the Victorian world open with his flamboyant, aesthetic, and decadent personality. We are still titillated today by the stories of Wilde--his razor-sharp wit and conversation as well as his personal style. Wouldn't we all like to have him at a glittery dinner party?
For Wilde, the purpose of art was to guide life, and to do this it must concern itself only with the pursuit of beauty, disdaining morality. Just as Dorian Gray's portrait allows its owner to escape the corporeal ravages of his hedonism, and Miss Prism mistakes a baby for a book in The Importance of Being Earnest, Wilde sought to juxtapose the beauty he saw in art onto daily life.[47] This was a practical as well as philosophical project: in Oxford he surrounded himself with blue china and lilies; in America he lectured on interior design; in London he paraded down Piccadilly carrying a lily, long hair flowing.[47]
Among his works for which we remember him (from Wikipedia):
- The Picture of Dorian Gray (serialised in Lipincott's 1890, published in book form in 1891; novel)
- Lady Windermere's Fan (1892, play)
- A Woman of No Importance (1893, play)
- An Ideal Husband (performed 1895, published 1898; play)
- The Importance of Being Earnest (performed 1895, published 1898; play)
As you can see from this photo, people come and leave Mr Wilde lipstick kisses as well as messages. I believe the kiss is supposed to bring good luck, perhaps in love. L.W. and I saw a documentary in which it was reported that it is difficult and costly for Wilde's family to keep up the grave because of the constant desecration.
The ultimate undoing of Mr. Wilde was of course the libel case he initiated against the father of one of his lovers and the subsequent criminal cases with moral charges against him. He spent two hard years in prison and moved to Paris after he got out, using the name Sebastian Melmoth. Wilde finally lived and died in the seedy Hôtel d'Alsace (now known as L'Hôtel) in Saint-Germain-des-Prés.
In 1909, Oscar Wilde's remains were moved from Cimetière de Bagneux to Père Lachaise Cemetery. His tomb was commissioned by his once-lover Robert Ross, who requested a compartment for his own ashes included. Mr. Ross's ashes were placed there in 1950.
As you see from the above photograph, the penis is missing from the genitalia on the tomb. It was stolen, replaced once, and disappeared again.
Location, location, location. Here are Oscar Wilde's ascthetic views from the tomb:
The famous courtroom speech:
Charles Gill (prosecuting): What is "the love that dare not speak its name?"
Wilde: "The love that dare not speak its name" in this century is such a great affection of an elder for a younger man as there was between David and Jonathan, such as Plato made the very basis of his philosophy, and such as you find in the sonnets of Michelangelo and Shakespeare. It is that deep spiritual affection that is as pure as it is perfect. It dictates and pervades great works of art, like those of Shakespeare and Michelangelo, and those two letters of mine, such as they are. It is in this century misunderstood, so much misunderstood that it may be described as "the love that dare not speak its name," and on that account of it I am placed where I am now. It is beautiful, it is fine, it is the noblest form of affection. There is nothing unnatural about it. It is intellectual, and it repeatedly exists between an older and a younger man, when the older man has intellect, and the younger man has all the joy, hope and glamour of life before him. That it should be so, the world does not understand. The world mocks at it, and sometimes puts one in the pillory for it."[99]
---Wikipedia
My father was a great trial attorney who injected theater in his courtroom dramas. I can imagine he admired Mr. Wilde's speech, and I would like nothing more than to have a conversation about these famous trials with him. What did he learn from them? How would he have represented Mr. Wilde?
I wish I could deposit my own kisses on my father's cheeks. As for my new neighbor...
Dear Oscar Wilde,
I wish you love and peace.
Kisses,
Beth
Unless otherwise indicated, all photos by Beth Arnold.
---Beth Arnold in Paris.
