The Ballad of Reading Gaol

As a history and art history major, I have to admit I have always been fascinated with late nineteenth century Europe. Despite all of the imperialism, empire building, and oppression, something draws me to fin de siecle art and literature more than any other period in history. It was an ominous time associated with impending change. The term decadence is often used to describe this era of newly acquired wealth and social restructuring, where the wealthy are said to have gorged themselves into complacency, while the poor were driven into hopelessness and apathy. It was an era of economic inequality, and a time when ideas of modernity began to solidify and outmode moral tradition. Sometimes I wonder if we are headed this way again when I pass million dollar condominiums built amidst predatory lending companies and hourly rate hotels on my way to work each morning. Perhaps it is their longevity and sustained relevancy that draws me into these works.

People usually associate this period with the literary and artistic movements known as asceticism and symbolism. Some leading writers from the era included Joris-Karl Huysmans, Charles Baudelaire, Stephane Mallarme, Paul Verlaine… and Oscar Wilde. Last week, I was reading through a collection of works by Oscar Wilde when I came across a passage that wedged itself into my consciousness. It was from a piece called The Ballad of Reading Gaol, which Wilde wrote shortly after he was released from an English prison. The poem is partly a commentary on the death penalty, human suffering, and the need for forgiveness. I have included one small portion; however I would really recommend reading the complete poem (talk about relevancy). An online version can be found here: http://poems.lesdoigtsbleus.free.fr/id99.htm

The Ballad of Reading Gaol, by Oscar Wilde (excerpt):

I only knew what hunted thought

Quickened his step, and why

He looked upon the garish day

With such a wistful eye;

The man had killed the thing he loved

And so he had to die.

Yet each man kills the thing he loves

By each let this be heard,

Some do it with a bitter look,

Some with a flattering word,

The coward does it with a kiss,

The brave man with a sword!

Some kill their love when they are young,

And some when they are old;

Some strangle with the hands of Lust,

Some with the hands of Gold:

The kindest use a knife, because

The dead so soon grow cold.

Some love too little, some too long,

Some sell, and others buy;

Some do the deed with many tears,

And some without a sigh:

For each man kills the thing he loves,

Yet each man does not die.

He does not die a death of shame

On a day of dark disgrace,

Nor have a noose about his neck,

Nor a cloth upon his face,

Nor drop feet foremost through the floor

Into an empty place

Perhaps this poem raises more questions than it answers. In any case, I think it provides a powerful model for examining the suffering that goes on within ourselves and others.

*An interesting note… W.E.B. Du Bois used a part of this poem in the closing lines of his 1935 revisionist book on African American involvement in the Civil War and Reconstruction.