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within us we should seek to live。 At any rate you will read those
parts of my letter with less pain than the others。 Of course I need
not remind you how fluid a thing thought is with mewith us all
and of what an evanescent substance are our emotions made。 Still I
do see a sort of possible goal towards which； through art； I may
progress。 It is not unlikely that you may help me。
As regards the mode of copying： of course it is too long for any
amanuensis to attempt： and your own handwriting； dear Robbie； in
your last letter seems specially designed to remind me that the task
is not to be yours。 I think that the only thing to do is to be
thoroughly modern and to have it typewritten。 Of course the MS。
should not pass out of your control； but could you not get Mrs。
Marshall to send down one of her type…writing girlswomen are the
most reliable as they have no memory for the importantto Hornton
Street or Phillimore Gardens； to do it under your supervision？ I
assure you that the typewriting machine； when played with
expression； is not more annoying than the piano when played by a
sister or near relation。 Indeed many among those most devoted to
domesticity prefer it。 I wish the copy to be done not on tissue
paper but on good paper such as is used for plays； and a wide
rubricated margin should be left for corrections 。 。 。 If the copy
is done at Hornton Street the lady typewriter might be fed through a
lattice in the door； like the Cardinals when they elect a Pope； till
she comes out on the balcony and can say to the world： 〃Habet
Mundus Epistolam〃； for indeed it is an Encyclical letter； and as the
Bulls of the Holy Father are named from their opening words； it may
be spoken of as the 〃Epistola： in Carcere et Vinculis。〃 。 。 。 In
point of fact； Robbie； prison life makes one see people and things
as they really are。 That is why it turns one to stone。 It is the
people outside who are deceived by the illusions of a life in
constant motion。 They revolve with life and contribute to its
unreality。 We who are immobile both see and know。 Whether or not
the letter does good to narrow natures and hectic brains； to me it
has done good。 I have 〃cleansed my bosom of much perilous stuff〃；
to borrow a phrase from the poet whom you and I once thought of
rescuing from the Philistines。 I need not remind you that mere
expression is to an artist the supreme and only mode of life。 It is
by utterance that we live。 Of the many； many things for which I
have to thank the Governor there is none for which I am more
grateful than for his permission to write fully and at as great a
length as I desire。 For nearly two years I had within a growing
burden of bitterness； of much of which I have now got rid。 On the
other side of the prison wall there are some poor black soot…
besmirched trees that are just breaking out into buds of an almost
shrill green。 I know quite well what they are going through。 They
are finding expression。
Ever yours；
OSCAR。
… Letter from Reading Prison to Robert Ross。
CAREY STREET
Where there is sorrow there in holy ground。 Some day people will
realise what that means。 They will know nothing of life till they
do；and natures like his can realise it。 When I was brought down
from my prison to the Court of Bankruptcy； between two policemen；
waited in the long dreary corridor that； before the whole crowd；
whom an action so sweet and simple hushed into silence； he might
gravely raise his hat to me； as； handcuffed and with bowed head； I
passed him by。 Men have gone to heaven for smaller things than
that。 It was in this spirit； and with this mode of love； that the
saints knelt down to wash the feet of the poor； or stooped to kiss
the leper on the cheek。 I have never said one single word to him
about what he did。 I do not know to the present moment whether he
is aware that I was even conscious of his action。 It is not a thing
for which one can render formal thanks in formal words。 I store it
in the treasure…house of my heart。 I keep it there as a secret debt
that I am glad to think I can never possibly repay。 It is embalmed
and kept sweet by the myrrh and cassia of many tears。 When wisdom
has been profitless to me； philosophy barren； and the proverbs and
phrases of those who have sought to give me consolation as dust and
ashes in my mouth； the memory of that little； lovely； silent act of
love has unsealed for me all the wells of pity： made the desert
blossom like a rose； and brought me out of the bitterness of lonely
exile into harmony with the wounded； broken； and great heart of the
world。 When people are able to understand； not merely how beautiful
…'s action was； but why it meant so much to me； and always will mean
so much； then； perhaps； they will realise how and in what spirit
they should approach me。 。 。 。
The poor are wise； more charitable； more kind； more sensitive than
we are。 In their eyes prison is a tragedy in a man's life； a
misfortune； a casuality； something that calls for sympathy in
others。 They speak of one who is in prison as of one who is 'in
trouble' simply。 It is the phrase they always use； and the
expression has the perfect wisdom of love in it。 With people of our
own rank it is different。 With us； prison makes a man a pariah。 I；
and such as I am； have hardly any right to air and sun。 Our
presence taints the pleasures of others。 We are unwelcome when we
reappear。 To revisit the glimpses of the moon is not for us。 Our
very children are taken away。 Those lovely links with humanity are
broken。 We are doomed to be solitary； while our sons still live。
We are denied the one thing that might heal us and keep us； that
might bring balm to the bruised heart； and peace to the soul in
pain。De Profundis
SORROW WEARS NO MASK
Sorrow； being the supreme emotion of which man is capable； is at
once the type and test of all great art。 What the artist is always
looking for is the mode of existence in which soul and body are one
and indivisible： in which the outward is expressive of the inward：
in which form reveals。 Of such modes of existence there are not a
few： youth and the arts preoccupied with youth may serve as a model
for us at one moment： at another we may like to think that； in its
subtlety and sensitiveness of impression； its suggestion of a spirit
dwelling in external things and making its raiment of earth and air；
of mist and city alike； and in its morbid sympathy of its moods； and
tones； and colours； modern landscape art is realising for us
pictorially what was realised in such plastic perfection by the
Greeks。 Music； in which all subject is absorbed in expression and
cannot be separated from it； is a complex example； and a flower or a
child a simple example； of what I mean； but sorrow is the ultimate
type both in life and art。
Behind joy and laughter there may be a temperament； coarse； hard and
callous。 But behind sorrow there is always sorrow。 Pain； unlike
pleasure； wears no mask。 Truth in art is not any correspondence
between the essential idea and the accidental existence； it is not
the resemblance of shape to shadow； or of the form mirrored in the
crystal to the form itself； it is no echo coming from a hollow hill；
any more than it is a silver well of water in the valley that shows
the moon to the moon and Narcissus to Narcissus。 Truth in art is
the unity of a thing with itself： the outward rendered expressive
of the inward： the soul made incarnate： the body instinct with
spirit。 For this reason there is no truth comparable to sorrow。
There are times when sorrow seems to me to be the only truth。 Other
things may be illusions of the eye or the appetite； made to blind
the one and cloy the other； but out of sorrow have the worlds been
built； and at the birth of a child or a star there is pain。
More than this； there is about sorrow an intense； an extraordinary
reality。 I have said of myself that I was one who stood in symbolic
relations to the art and culture of my age。 There is not a single
wretched man in this wretched place along with me who does not stand
in symbolic relation to the very secret of life。 For the secret of
life is suffering。 It is what is hidden behind everything。 When we
begin to live； what is sweet is so sweet to us； and what is bitter
so bitter； that we inevitably direct all our desires towards
pleasures； and seek not merely for a 'month or twain to feed on
honeycomb；' but for all our years to taste no other food； ignorant
all the while that we may really be starving the soul。De Profundis
VITA NUOVA
Far off； like a perfect pearl； one can see the city of God。 It is
so wonderful that it seems as if a child could reach it in a
summer's day。 And so a child could。 But with me and such as me it
is different。 One can realise a thing in a single moment； but