De Profundis By Oscar Wilde. Format: Global Grey free PDF, epub, Kindle ebook. Pages (PDF): Publication Date: Download links are below the. Note that later editions of De Profundis contained more material. De Profundis was written by Oscar Wilde during his imprisonment in Reading. De profundis by Oscar Wilde; 72 editions; First published in ; Subjects: Correspondence, In Library, Accessible book, English literature.
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De Profundis by Oscar Wilde. De Profundis Suffering is one very long moment . We cannot divide it by seasons. We can only record its moods, and chronicle. Free kindle book and epub digitized and proofread by Project Gutenberg. De Profundis (Latin: "from the depths") is a letter written by Oscar Wilde after Wilde's death, giving it the title De Profundis from Psalm
Do not show this letter to others, nor discuss what I have written in your answer. When I think about religion at all, I feel as if I would like to found an order for those who cannot believe: Of course I know that from one point of view things will be made different for me than for others; must indeed, by the very nature of the case, be made so. Still more: If one of us is imprisoned, he becomes a pariah! If I realise all that I have suffered, I demand that society shall realise what it has done to me and what it owes to me; that we should both banish from our hearts all feelings of embitterment and hatred and let the past be forgotten. There is even now to me something almost incredible in the idea that a young Galilean peasant could imagine that He had the power to take upon and carry on His shoulders the burden of the whole world:
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De profundis , The Modern library. De Profundis , Methuen. Epistola in carcere et vinculis , S. De profundis , S. De profundis , G. Putnam's Sons. De profundis , Putnam's. De profundis , Methuen and Co. Aufzeichnungen und Briefe aus dem Zuchthaus in Reading , S. De profundis , A. Putnam's sons. De profundis Publish date unknown, Methuen. History Created March 11, 17 revisions Download catalog record: Libraries near you: WorldCat Library.
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The Canterville Ghost Oscar Wilde. A House of Pomegranates Oscar Wilde. 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. The paralysing immobility of a life every circumstance of which is regulated after an unchangeable pattern, so that we eat and drink and lie down and pray, or kneel at least for prayer, according to the inflexible laws of an iron formula: Of seed-time or harvest, of the reapers bending over the corn, or the grape gatherers threading through the vines, of the grass in the orchard made white with broken blossoms or strewn with fallen fruit: For us there is only one season, the season of sorrow.
The very sun and moon seem taken from us. Outside, the day may be blue and gold, but the light that creeps down through the thickly-muffled glass of the small iron-barred window beneath which one sits is grey and niggard. And in the sphere of thought, no less than in the sphere of time, motion is no more.
The thing that you personally have long ago forgotten, or can easily forget, is happening to me now, and will happen to me again to-morrow. Remember this, and you will be able to understand a little of why I am writing, and in this manner writing. A week later, I am transferred here.
Three more months go over and my mother dies. No one knew how deeply I loved and honoured her. Her death was terrible to me; but I, once a lord of language, have no words in which to express my anguish and my shame.
She and my father had bequeathed me a name they had made noble and honoured, not merely in literature, art, archaeology, and science, but in the public history of my own country, in its evolution as a nation. I had disgraced that name eternally. I had made it a low by-word among low people. I had dragged it through the very mire. I had given it to brutes that they might make it brutal, and to fools that they might turn it into a synonym for folly.
What I suffered then, and still suffer, is not for pen to write or paper to record. My wife, always kind and gentle to me, rather than that I should hear the news from indifferent lips, travelled, ill as she was, all the way from Genoa to England to break to me herself the tidings of so irreparable, so irremediable, a loss. Messages of sympathy reached me from all who had still affection for me.