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.