A kiss for Oscar

Although it has been a number of years since I have read any work by Oscar Wilde except for his De Profundis which I consulted after watching the film with Stephen Fry in the lead role, I do have to say that is probably a serious error on my part- for his writing is often quite funny, lovely and at times absolutely extraordinary.  Perhaps the story of Dorian Gray would appeal to me nowadays on a different level- my own youth withering away as it is, and a longing for the days gone by of that world which belonged to the innocent young man who read it with such eagerness.

The reason I mention this is because this is because, following on the previous post of Marcel Proust and Honore de Balzac, the Pere Lachaise visit must of course also include the beloved Oscar Wilde.  I have always wondered why so many people went to his grave and defaced it with kisses and lipstick, as if that were any kind of respect for the writer and the man.  The powers that be have finally, just a few months ago, erected a protective screen so that no further physical harm can be done to the grave, and this was what greeted me when I went to pay my visit.  Of the many graves of the long fallen and mostly forgotten, that of Wilde was the most visited, the most touristic, the most voyeuristic, and, really I did and still do wonder whether these people had even read a word of Wilde's.  You see, they struck me as the type of character to visit New York City and go to the Museum of Modern Art and then proceed to walk quickly through without any interest or appreciation of art in general or specific, buy a postcard of some recognizable work (or something from the current show), take a photo of the facade with themselves in it, and then go home and then tell their like-minded friends about how MoMA was so brilliant etc, but would be hard pressed to answer anything about what they saw or how they felt or honestly, why on earth did they even bother.

I will add that despite the barrier, I too placed a kiss on the grave, near the bottom where one can touch the stone proper- and reflected once again on the love that dare not speak its name and of love in general and in specific. But, such is life, and such is death.

the plaque in front of where Oscar Wilde left us.

in front of where Oscar Wilde breathed his last.