I recently picked up a copy of Frances Winwar’s 1941 Wilde biography, Oscar Wilde and the Yellow Nineties, not for the biography itself but for the hostile forward written by Lord Alfred Douglas, which I can only imagine Winwar’s publisher forced into the book after the threat of legal action.
"I win a lot of court cases back home but I’m happy to play on your court today, even though it’s riddled of infractions and is not regulation-sized"—I think you missed an opportunity to mention the Marquess of Queensberry Rules here. Otherwise great, as usual.
"Perhaps I may be allowed to plead that as I am now over seventy years of age..." at this point he's tipped so far over into self parody that I honest to God thought I was reading an italicized section at first
You may already be aware of this, but there exists a book of letters between Bosie and George Bernard Shaw, and it is a remarkable volume. They spend every letter insulting each other bitterly but also seem mutually contented with their friendship (they have little nicknames for each other; I am alight with anticipation for you to discover what Bosie's is). I recommend to your particular attention their exchange when GBS reads Oscar Wilde: A Summing-Up (in August 1939) and sends his feedback about it. Absolute goldmine of petty bitchiness. I return to it any time I am feeling blue.
This self-love definitely dares speak its name.
hating on Douglas never gets old lmao thank you for this
"I win a lot of court cases back home but I’m happy to play on your court today, even though it’s riddled of infractions and is not regulation-sized"—I think you missed an opportunity to mention the Marquess of Queensberry Rules here. Otherwise great, as usual.
"Perhaps I may be allowed to plead that as I am now over seventy years of age..." at this point he's tipped so far over into self parody that I honest to God thought I was reading an italicized section at first
Brilliant, Daniel.
OH MY GOD??????
You may already be aware of this, but there exists a book of letters between Bosie and George Bernard Shaw, and it is a remarkable volume. They spend every letter insulting each other bitterly but also seem mutually contented with their friendship (they have little nicknames for each other; I am alight with anticipation for you to discover what Bosie's is). I recommend to your particular attention their exchange when GBS reads Oscar Wilde: A Summing-Up (in August 1939) and sends his feedback about it. Absolute goldmine of petty bitchiness. I return to it any time I am feeling blue.