Suffering is one very long moment. We cannot divide it by seasons. We can only record its moods, and chronicle their return. With us time itself does not progress. It revolves. It seems to circle round one centre of pain.

wilde has a beautiful brain.

this was so gorgeous, i love oscar wilde so much

Después de haber leído "El retrato de Dorian Gray" caí enamorada de la narrativa de Oscar Wilde, al investigar un poco más sobre él fue que me encontré con esta obra y junto a ella los desgarradores sucesos que lo llevaron a escribirla.
El hecho de que esta carta fue escrita durante su estadía en prisión da un sentimiento diferente al lector, es una obra dolorosa, sentimental, llena de sentimientos y vulnerabilidad. Sin duda no debe leerse de forma ligera, pues en el libro están los momentos más difíciles de la vida del autor.
Para mí es una obra maestra que podría releer varías veces.

This is brilliant and heartbreaking and frustrating as hell.

When it comes to lust Oscar Wilde is no different than every man on Sugardaddy.com. Find a pretty young thing, pay his/her bills, and then become completely undone when s/he turns out to be in it for the cash and prizes! Lord Alfred Douglas was a terrible man all throughout his life. He loved Hitler and the Klan and wished for both to descend upon England. He always lived off others. He was a textbook narcissist. But terrible though he was, he wasn't hiding who he was. He consistently told Wilde he was a trophy boyfriend; he spoke through actions yes, but also explicitly through words. Wilde's "why did you make me rack up debts and enter into inadvisable legal actions?" shtick would be sad if it wasn't so clear he deserved it. In the last moments of this English gentleman's version of a primal scream Wilde beseeches his sugar baby to explain why he has not visited. He hasn't visited because the gravy train was derailed. Even as he rots in prison Wilde refuses to acknowledge the truth of it. He whines, he analyzes, but never does he say that he is a vain idiot who let a pretty boy destroy his life. Love is not that blind. Lust is that blind. Pride is that blind. But love? No.

So other than that Mrs. Lincoln, how was the play? Well, it was freaking great. Wilde is brilliant, and his writing on the nature of art and self is moving and wise and gorgeous. I spent hours transfixed by Wilde's words, and then I flipped back to page 1 and re-read swaths of the book. I am quite certain I will go back and do it again, eventually. When I reread this, I will wonder anew at how Wilde could so completely fail to lend his prodigious wisdom to his own life. His was, perhaps, a fitting end for an aesthete, but that makes the end no less tragic and makes the loss of Wilde before the age of 50 no less lamentable.

There used to be a time when I would make myself read through any book I'd started just for the sake of it, but I'm immensly grateful this time has passed.
Despite my love for The Picture of Dorian Gray and for Wilde's wittiness, I see De Profundis as a waste of literary imagination and beautiful language. I must admit that I will probably never be able to imagine what Wilde was going through and perhaps this writing helped him find solace, yet reading it I couldn't help but roll my eyes at every contradiction and every blaiming 'you' almost every sentence started with.
I got through half of the book hoping to reach some promise of development or deeper meaning but that was about all the patience I found.

es cortito pero se me hizo eterno :(

el libro en si es bueno, Óscar wilde cuenta como la paso en su tiempo en la cárcel y todas las reflexiones que tuvo gracias a eso. Si bien se me hizo interesante, tambien aburrido