Oscar Wilde

Reading Wilde’s The Portrait of Mr W.H., an interesting account of the mystery of W.H., the person Shakespeare devoted his famous Sonnets.

When one reads Wilde’s prose, one can actually feel his thoughts and feelings. As critic and author, Peter Ackroyd, comments:

‘This is quintessential Wilde, introducing paradox into the realm of speculation and wit into the sphere of art.’

Most English 19th century intellectuals were sincerely obsessed with Shakespeare’s Sonnets, because it is the bard’s notions on love, art, beauty and what it really means to be an artist.

Rather than spoil the plot, let me just say that the book covers Aestheticism, Literary Criticism and obsession with ‘literature’ which can, in some cases, be worse than opium addiction.

Only read this afternoon and managed to have a two hour nap. The short sleep was required as the body demanded it. My dreams, however, rambled: images of countless books, monsters and angels.

In my past, I would keep a ‘dream journal’, because at the time, my dreams began to become more real than physical reality. As I re-read these entries, the actual images return with almost the same energy as before: a strange period in my life.

Our cats are happy, sleeping on Lou’s bed.

Tomorrow is ‘chapter 15 day’ for writing on my novel. The chapter is much too long and needs a few nips and tucks, but this story, from the very beginning, has written itself, thus I can only go with the flow.

Emotional State: Philosophical & Tired…again.