It's weird how reading can make you feel so close to someone. I've been reading books by and from Wilde since I was fourteen years old, and I've started caring about him like he was a friend of mine. Does that sound silly? I assume it does. Nevertheless, it did make reading this book a challenge, since I kept choking up at certain parts. Sometimes, I could only read one letter a day.
It felt very personal, very intrusive: this wasn't the idealized, idolized hero of my lonely teenage years, but a real, living, breathing person with all their magnificent flaws and faults. Oscar Wilde, always playing a scene, so convincing that he ended up believing himself: that he'd love married life, that Lord Alfred was an angel among humans, that Lord Alfred was a devil among humans, that he'd live a reformed, quiet life in the country after being released from prison (like Francesco d'Assisi!), that living together with Lord Alfred would bring his old self back. So deluded, so stubborn, so self-destructive; yet such a dazzling personality, such a kind friend, such a loving father. Human nature is very complicated indeed.
But what about this book? It includes letters from his early childhood days till the sad last days in Paris. They paint an encompassing picture of his life, although I wish I'd be able to read the answers from the recipients, too, just to be able to see their point of view - the letters from Constance and Robbie Ross that were included were very interesting in that regard. Nevertheless I recommend this book, although you should have some knowledge of his life prior to starting it or it might get a tad confusing. (Barbara Belford or Richard Ellmann are good starting points.)