When released from prison, Wilde left England for France, never to return. Like too many other great writers and artists, he died destitute. And young. He was only 46 years of age. It is somewhat of a cliche to describe someone's writing as being laden with aching beauty, but that is exactly what I find when I read his later works, like the simple but sublime story, The Selfish Giant.
Enjoy his wonderful canon, but reflect too, as you read through it, on the journey of the man and on the sometimes tragic judgments that are part of our history and culture . . . But note too, that we are always moving forward in Western Civilization, even if imperfectly. And we should learn from him too. At the point in time when he could have been most bitter, he wrote stories with great and enduring beauty. I don't think Wilde would ever want us to overlook the beauty in the world. You can feel it in his later writing. So always remember that too.
