The Selfie Complex

Fair warning:  Hideously tortured thoughts ahead. Weight Loss Journey and Journey of Self Acceptance.  This has naught to do with roleplaying or any of my other pursuits, but that's part of what I told myself I'd do (and warned you!) when I resurrected this blog.

Selfies.  The pinnacle of modern vainglorious social media bullshit.  And I love them.  I love taking them.  I love posting them.  Except I don't.

Backing up.  When I go out to see people socially I usually spend a lot of time on putting myself together. All for people I know and who, in theory, don't give a good god damn about what I look like, made up or no.  And yet I must Put It On.  I must wear this mask of what I feel to be Perfect, Acceptable, Beautiful Not Ugly.  I might put on a face for a character if we're going to be roleplaying.  I tend to go buck wild if we'll be at a gathering where there will be people who I feel the need to ward against - even though they're supposed to be friends - but that's another exploration altogether.  Clothes and makeup, I'll contour and shapewear myself to death to make sure that my face and body silhouette are as much to my liking as possible.  I haven't gotten good yet at making my hair do things, but that's a problem for a future Childe.

BUT SELFIES.  So there's a lot of effort and, dare I say, craft that goes into the outward presentation I frequently put on.  A ton of artifice, smoke and mirrors, but that makes me feel armoured against the world.  Something I can hide behind.

I want to document it, in part because I'm proud of what I've done, and in part to show myself (and the world?) that I'm not the hideous bloated monster I perceive myself to be in my mind.  Selfies are also the one mode of photography where I am in control and where I don't look mushed and awful like when other people take the picture.  So I revel in them.  And where else to pop those images for posterity but over on social media?  And in that instant, those moments where I write my blurb, upload those images, and hit "POST", I'm feeling it.  And then the regret sets in.

I get plenty of positive comments, likes, other reactions.  I've never had anyone tell me that it is TOO MUCH, that I ought to STOP NOW.  But almost immediately I start to doubt whether they're genuine.  I know so many people who are... what's the word... They're just the sort who, to me, seem to be entirely too squishy, supportive of anyone for anything to the point of being enabling and not addressing issues when really they ought to be (oh you haven't gotten your kids to school on time in a month?  IT'S OK YOU'RE TRYING SO HARD YOU ARE BEST MOM AND WE LOVE YOU).  There's an infantilisation at play, though again, another exploration, another time.

So I doubt their sincerity, for one.  They're liking and supporting because it is reflexive, not genuine, and that disgusts me.  And I just feel as though I post too damned many pictures of my face. Like, who wants to see that all the time?   I feel as though I'm imposing my bullshit on them, that I literally have nothing else to offer beyond yet another tilted head half smile angled from that side picture of my dumb face.  I also feel like a fraud because, given all the artifice that I put into it, that's not really me, it is a lie, I'm not really as pretty and approaching thinner as I appear to be in those pictures.   I know so many people who seem to be effortlessly beautiful, with or without makeup, and I despise that I don't Have That.

Therein lies my crisis of mind.  I love what I've done to my presentation in the moment.  I want to remember how awesome I felt in that moment.  A part of me wants to share that moment.  But then crippling self doubt and hatred sets in, and I shut down.

I put a self-imposed ban on myself for posting selfies over in Zuccverse.  It has been a month of no selfies, and honestly my anxiety seems to have lessened a bit.  I have oodles of selfies on my phone, and they've stayed there.  But then I joined another social media platform, and what's one of the first things I do?  Fucking selfie post, like I couldn't help myself.  Which is how I got on this whole line of agonised thinking.

I don't know where I'm going with this; mostly just putting down thoughts so that I can return to this later.  I wish I felt differently.  I wish I could maintain the confidence I have when I initially share these images.  I wish I didn't feel like such a fraud.  And that's a path I need to walk, a destination I need to find.  I just need to learn how.

Character Exploration - Bosabrieln's Grief

In our long-running D&D campaign, my Bard's mentor, lover, protector, was killed in battle.  Interested parties can read about it in the campaign write-up over at Obsidian Portal.

Their relationship was odd and wrong. When crafting my character many years ago, I fashioned him (Bosabrieln, "Bosie") after Lord Alfred Douglas - vain, conceited, fabulous, eventually evolving into the sociopath he was always destined to be - and his mentor/lover, Vianibrar, was flavoured with a heaping dose of Oscar Wilde.  I am nothing if not predictable.

Their history, in brief:  Bosie is the bastard half-elven son of a wood elf, who for political and spiteful reasons all his own, brought this poor infant back to their heavily xenophobic and isolated elven city after the human mother died in childbirth.  Fast forward through a little over a decade of Cinderella-esque maltreatment, and Bosie is rescued by his father's friend, Vianibrar, an iconoclastic Bard adventurer, also of this awful community, but free of their hatred.  Making good on some bargain he and Bosabrieln's father had made years ago, he takes the child under his wing, into his home, and begins schooling him in the Bardic arts. Skip ahead but a precious few years more, and they have become lovers and entered into this truly fucked up romantic relationship.  Vian is well over 300, and at the time Bosabrieln is 16 or 17.  It is squicky.  It is uncomfortable.  But gods, if it isn't the best thing that has ever happened to Bosabrieln ever, and it enables him for the first time to hit back at the community that raised him so cruelly, because have no doubt that his father and his father's family despise this arrangement.  From there, after Bosie ventures into the world to start making a name for himself, Vianibrar is always but a letter, a Sending, or a Dreaming away.  A constant resource, even when Bosabrieln's own skill begins to approach, match, and exceed Vian's own.

And now he's dead.  The session where he died was devastating and beautiful.  I cried actual real life tears (helps having a DM who is especially adept at creating mood and giving description).  It was everything I could have hoped for in this awful chapter for this character.  I know I'm not alone in revelling in masochism for my OCs.

We're playing again today, picking up in the aftermath.  In part to get myself back into that devastating headspace, and in part hearkening back to some of my theatrical training in character study because it just sounded like fun, I thought on the five stages of grief, and how each one manifests for Bosabrieln.  I present those to you now.  There's a lot of reference to in-game people, places, and happenings, which I will not detail below, though I'll again direct you to the Obsidian Portal wiki if you'd like to learn more about this campaign!

Denial

Bosabrieln does not dwell in denial for long. As the battle ends, the sounds of battle cease and the square stills, he looks around briefly for Vianibrar. He'd heard him, though his voice has been silent throughout it all, which is so unlike him. There's a moment where he thinks, Where did Vian fuck off to now, already making sure someone knows, that diva? At last his gaze settles on the crumpled coat over the harp and rapier. Though his brain cannot parse it, he knows, his stomach suddenly feeling bottomless, like falling. Those moments, minutes (hours?) become a blur. Maybe Gloomblight says something – they were fighting side by side after all when it happened – most likely Moridal, for he loved Vian too, in his way. Bosie makes his way to the effects across the square as though slowed by some unknown spellcaster, the world around him goes silent and all that exists are himself, the clothes, the Bardic weapons, and all that damn dust. So much dust, on the ground, in the air, in the folds of Vianibrar's coat. There's a brief moment where he instinctively moves to pick up the coat to shake it out, and that's when it hits. What the dust is. Who it was. Carefully, gently, purposefully, he folds up the coat, preserving as much of that fine grey powder as he can, wrapping it again in the travel blanket that he pulls from his pack (or did Moridal hand it to him?). This precious bundle assembled, he sets it back down, placing rapier and harp atop it. Still on his knees on the cold hard stones of the square, he throws his head back, looking to the heavens if he could only bring himself to open his eyes, and howls, abundant tears creating tracks through the ash that has caked onto his face, onto all their faces. This is the only time he cries for others to see.

Anger

He masks it well, can't let his public facade crack, he's got to be on. Privately, though, and this is where the Mansion becomes more a refuge than ever it had been, he's unhinged. Safe within the extradimensional walls of his design, Bosabrieln rails against the universe. He didn't realise he was doing it at first; although the Shields are all afforded accommodations in Scandshar following the Solstice tragedy, sleeping in the Mansion at this point seems comforting and familiar, the manifestation of his own mind creating this literal safe-house around him. He breaks things, throws them, rends tapestries, knowing they'll all rematerialise again the next time he needs them. The ghostly servants make no move to intervene, standing silently by until they are needed. No food is prepared.

Anger drives all of his actions for a time, when it is all so fresh and new. Biting arguments with Peacock and Drow witnesses (and others besides) during the Parliamentary inquest. His general conduct is tinged with bitterness. And of course, especially, the trip he makes to Nainimdul to inform their kin of Vian's demise, to memorialise him there, to make sure they don't just know, they understand it, and they own it.

Bargaining

He visits temples. Corellon and Bahamut. Corellon, to beseech Vianibrar's rest and comfort, his return if only their deeds were good enough. They drove the Drow back under, fought valiantly for good causes, and their lives, his and Vianibrar's, were ever focused on beauty and perfection, and if all of this isn't enough for Corellon to see fit that Vian might return to life, what more can he do, what greater deeds would be enough?

Bahamut's temple visits are different. The first, of course, is to ensure that the Claws' effects are brought home – if he does not escort these things himself, he certainly follows up in the days that come to pass. The subsequent visits are of quiet contemplation. He'd met the old man before and, as he reasons with himself, Bosabrieln has proven to be a formidable force in the world, one worthy of a visit. Should they ever meet again, he'd only want to drink and talk.

When he is a god, he promises himself, he'll find a way.

Depression and Isolation

As with his anger, there's not a lot of his outward face that belies his internal journey in this regard. He eats less, sleeps less. His is not a restless insomnia, wracked with thoughts of what could have been, what might have been done differently. Instead Bosabrieln begins to fill his nights with reading and learning, with music, acquainting his fingers, hands, and arms with Vian's harp, learning her weight, her sound, her idiosyncrasies. Sometimes he walks. If they're in a city, he cloaks himself to remain unknown and unbothered. If they're out in the world and he's not on watch, he'll beg his watchful companion's pardon, and set off in any direction. If they insist in sleeping in the Mansion he still slips out, returning by the morning.

He seeks out Valna, portaling to Argent if need be. They speak of gods, of life, of death, of responsibility. Sometimes they lie together companionably, quietly, hands intertwined. Looking up at the stars, just different enough this far North. He calms his mind, if only briefly, combing her hair, braiding it, pinning it. Things he'd do for her back when their lives were so much simpler. Of course, he never gives voice to any of this.

Acceptance

He never accepts it, not truly. He acknowledges it, of course, recognises the reality of Vianibrar's passing. But acceptance, in this, is not in his vocabulary.

There are firsts, and each one hits like a dragon's tail to the chest. The first time he thinks to contact Vian for advice. The first time he starts a Sending. The first time he finds himself reflexively smiling at a memory. The first time he thinks of Vian and it doesn't ache. The first time he dreams of Vianibrar, at first so like their Dream couplings, when they were both fully aware and present, but eventually deteriorating into incoherent nonsense in the way that only real dreams do. From that he awakes, still aroused, confused, and devastated, knowing that things between them will never be the same again, for there is no “between them”, there is only Bosabrieln.

Back On The Damn Horse

Four, almost five years?  Dear gods...

I'm giving it another shot, I want to get back to writing, get back to sharing.  This is a bit more anonymous than Facebook (really the only other social media I use regularly) so it will feel - I hope - like more of a safe space.  Hardly anyone knows I have this little corner of the internet, so maybe it will allow me to be freer with my thoughts.

Things I'd like to write about:

• Sewing and crafting projects
• Costumes and makeup (related to the above, of course)
• Tabletop and LARP gaming
• My weight loss journey
• And I want to actually DO my Everything Oscar project...

That's it for now, nothing particularly noteworthy, just an official declaration of,  "I'm giving this another shot, I think!  I hope!"  Place your bets now for how long I'll keep at it.  I hope I prove us all wrong.

The Oscar Project: Day 10 of 365

My head hurts.  Not like a headache, just that overwhelmed feeling I get when studying, cramming knowledge into nooks and crannies as quickly as I can.  But it is done, this list—at last—is done, and now I can commence with reading.  My biggest surprise was that I actually have everything.  Well, with three exceptions, but I'll get to that in a bit.  Though if you were to ask M'Colleague, I don't think he'd be terribly surprised.  The list is at the end of this post.

I was able to find it all in just ten books, plus one e-book, which means I won't have to constantly be jumping amongst a huge number of volumes.  I actually could have gotten away with it in seven (that Complete Works volume is actually quite true to its name) but I wanted to be able to take Dorian Gray, the short stories, and De Profundis with me in a more purse-friendly manner, as they're the more long form offerings.

Here are the ten books which will be my companions for the next year, also with that absurdly pink version of Complete Works I'd mentioned last week, for good measure:

It will now return to my car.

There have been a small number of letters that have been uncovered in the handful of years since the Complete Letters of Oscar Wilde and A Life In Letters were published, but those shouldn't be difficult to find online.  There are, however, three obscure works which are not included in any published collection, and are either stupidly expensive or nigh-impossible to find online.  I'm looking at you, The Oscar Wilde Society.  I just cannot justify £40 annually to get your periodic publications sent to me stateside and (presumably) access to That One Damn Essay.  Perhaps some day this will seem an insignificant expense, but sadly not right now.

The three in question are below, and are marked by an * on the list:
The Women of Homer, an essay written in 1876, during Oscar's Oxford days.  Held fast in the clutches of The Oscar Wilde Society, and seemingly unavailable anywhere else, unless one has hundreds of pounds/dollars for an out of print version.
An article on the painter Henry O'Neill, which Oscar published anonymously in "Saunders News-Letter" in Dublin, in 1877.  I will still try to look for this online, but so far no luck.
Fire at Sea, a translation of a French short story, ca. 1886.  From everything I can find, it was printed on a 25-page quarto folio, not sure how many copies, and that's about it.  Again, I'll continue to look for this one as well.

So here we have it, the master list of works by Oscar Wilde, not including individual letters, which I intend to read in groups by year.  Two works, a play fragment and a poem, were published posthumously by Robert Ross, and those dates are used.  The final count is:  67 essays and reviews, 6 lectures, 9 plays, 14 short stories, 95 poems, 1 Dorian Gray, and 1 De Profundis for a total of 193 unique pieces.  And the trial transcript.  And all those letters...

I'm beyond excited to have completed this list and be able to get on with the reading.  Wish me luck!

Year of Publication	Title	Category
1875	San Miniato	Poem
1875	Chorus of Cloud Maidens	Poem
1876	From Spring Days to Winter	Poem
1876	La Bella Donna della mia Mente	Poem
1876	The Dole of the King’s Daughter	Poem
1876	Rome Unvisited	Poem
1876	ΑΙΛΙΝΟΝ, 'ΑΙΛΙΝΟΝ 'ΕΙΠΕ, ΤΟ Δ'ΕΥ ΝΙΚΑΤΩ (Tristitiae)	Poem
1876	The Rise of Historical Criticism	Essay
1876	*The Women of Homer	Essay
1877	Sonnet on approaching Italy	Poem
1877	Sonnet written in Holy Week at Genoa	Poem
1877	Urbs Sacra Æterna	Poem
1877	The Grave of Keats	Poem
1877	The Tomb of Keats	Essay
1877	*Article on Henry O'Neill, Saunders' Newsletter	Essay
1877	Vita Nuova	Poem
1877	A Fragment from the Agamemnon of Aeschylos	Poem
1877	A Vision	Poem
1877	Madonna Mia	Poem
1877	Wasted Days	Poem
1878	Ravenna	Poem
1878	Ave Maria Gratia plena	Poem
1878	ΘΡΗΝΩΔΙΑ (A Song of Lamentation) (exact date unknown, assuming college)	Poem
1879	Athanasia	Poem
1879	Easter Day	Poem
1879	Phêdre (A Sonnet to Sarah Bernhardt)	Poem
1879	Queen Henrietta Maria	Essay
1879	The New Helen/	Poem
1879	Ballade de Marguerite	Poem
1880	Vera; or, The Nihilists	Play
1880	Impression de Voyage	Poem
1880	Ave Imperatrix	Poem
1880	Pan, A Villanelle	Essay
1880	Libertatis Sacra Fames	Poem
1880	The Artist's Dream or Sen Artysty	Poem
1881	Serenade	Poem
1881	Impression du Matin	Poem
1881	La Fuite de la Lune	Poem
1881	Les Silhouettes	Poem
1881	Amor Intellectualis	Poem
1881	Apologia	Poem
1881	At Verona	Poem
1881	Camma/	Poem
1881	Chanson	Poem
1881	Charmides	Poem
1881	E Tenebris	Poem
1881	Endymion	Poem
1881	Fabien dei Franchi, Camma	Poem
1881	Helas	Poem
1881	Her Voice	Poem
1881	Humanitad	Poem
1881	Impression: Le Reveillon	Poem
1881	Impressions du Théatre:	Poem
1881	In the Gold Room: a Harmony	Poem
1881	Italia	Poem
1881	Louis Napoleon	Poem
1881	Magdalen Walks	Poem
1881	My Voice	Poem
1881	Panthea	Poem
1881	Portia	Poem
1881	Quantum Mutata	Poem
1881	Quia Multum amavi	Poem
1881	Requiescat	Poem
1881	Santa Decca	Poem
1881	Silentium Amoris	Poem
1881	Sonnet on hearing the Dies Iræ sung in the Sistine Chapel	Poem
1881	Sonnet on the Massacre of the Christians in Bulgaria	Poem
1881	Sonnet to Liberty	Poem
1881	Tædium Vitæ	Poem
1881	The Burden of Itys	Poem
1881	The Garden of Eros	Poem
1881	The Grave of Shelley	Poem
1881	Theocritus: a Villanelle	Poem
1881	Theoretikos/	Poem
1881	To Milton	Poem
1881	ΓΛΥΚΥΠΙΚΡΟΕ ΕΡΩΣ (Flower of Love)	Poem
1881	Impressions:	Poem
1881	By the Arno/	Poem
1881	La Mer	Poem
1881	Lotus Leaves	Poem
1881	On the Sale by Auction of Keats' Love Letters	Poem
1881	The True Knowledge	Poem
1881	Under The Balcony	Poem
1881	With A Copy of "A House of Pomegranates"	Poem
1881	Le Jardin des Tuileries	Poem
1882	L'Envoi	Essay
1882	The Irish Poets of '48	Lecture
1882	House Decoration	Lecture
1882	Mrs. Langtry as Hester Grazebrook	Essay
1882	Art and the Handicraftsman	Lecture
1882	The English Renaissance of Art	Lecture
1883	The Duchess of Padua	Play
1883	Lecture to Art Students	Lecture
1883	Personal Impressions of America	Lecture
1884	Woman's Dress	Essay
1885	Mr. Whistler's Ten o'clock	Essay
1885	The Relation of Dress to Art	Essay
1885	Dinners and Dishes	Essay
1885	Shakespeare on Scenery	Essay
1885	The Harlot's House	Poem
1885	Hamlet at the Lyceum	Essay
1885	Henry IV at Oxford	Essay
1885	The Truth of Masks	Essay
1885	Roses and Rue (to L.L.)	Poem
1885	A Handbook to Marriage	Essay
1885	Aristotle at Afternoon Tea	Essay
1885	The Philosophy of Dress	Essay
1886	*A Fire at Sea, translation	Story
1886	Keats's Sonnet on Blue	Essay
1886	Balzac in English	Essay
1886	Ben Johnson	Essay
1886	A "Jolly" Art Critic	Essay
1886	[George Saintsbury] "Half Hours with the Worst Authors	Essay
1886	To Read or Not to Read	Essay
1886	Two Biographies of Sir Philip Sidney	Essay
1887	The Canterville Ghost	Story
1887	Great Writers by Little Men	Essay
1887	The American Invasion	Essay
1887	A Cheap Edition of a Great Man	Essay
1887	Injury & Insult	Essay
1887	The Sphinx Without a Secret	Story
1887	Mr. Pater's Imaginary Portraits	Essay
1887	The Model Millionaire	Story
1887	Two Biographies of Keats	Essay
1887	Lord Arthur Saville's Crime	Story
1887	Fantaisies Décoratives	Poem
1887	[Dostoevsky's The Insulted and Injured]	Essay
1887	A New Book on Dickens	Essay
1887	Mr. Mahaffy's New Book [Greek Life and Thought]	Essay
1887	The American Man	Essay
1887	The Butterfly's Boswel	Essay
1887	The Poets and the People	Essay
1887	The Rout of the R[oyal] A[cademy]	Essay
1887	William Morris's Odyssey	Essay
1888	Canzonet	Poem
1888	From the Poets' Corner	Essay
1888	The Devoted Friend	Story
1888	The Happy Prince	Story
1888	The Nightingale and the Rose	Story
1888	The Remarkable Rocket	Story
1888	The Selfish Giant	Story
1888	English Poetesses	Essay
1888	Sir Edwin Arnold's Last Volume	Essay
1888	The Young King	Story
1888	[Poems by Henley and Sharpe]	Essay
1888	M, Caro on George Sand	Essay
1889	London Models	Essay
1889	Pen, Pencil and Poison	Essay
1889	The Decay of Lying	Essay
1889	The New President [of the Royal Society of British Artists]	Essay
1889	Some Literary Notes	Essay
1889	Symphony in Yellow	Poem
1889	Further Literary Notes	Essay
1889	The Birthday of the Infanta	Story
1889	The Portrait of Mr. W. H.	Story
1889	In The Forest	Poem
1889	[Yeats's Fairy and Folk Tales]	Essay
1889	[Yeats's The Wanderings of Oisin]	Essay
1889	Mr. Froude's Blue Book [on Ireland]	Essay
1889	Mr. Swinburne's Last Volume	Essay
1889	Ouida's New Novel [Guilderoy]	Essay
1889	Poetry and Prison	Essay
1889	The Gospel According to Walt Whitman	Essay
1890	The Soul of Man Under Socialism	Essay
1890	A Preface to The Picture of Dorian Gray	Essay
1890	The Critic As Artist	Essay
1890	The Picture of Dorian Gray	Novel
1890	[Defense of Dorian Gray] (letters to the press)	Essay
1890	A Chinese Sage [Confucius]	Essay
1890	Mr. Pater's Last Volume [Appreciations]	Essay
1891	The Fisherman and his Soul	Story
1891	The Star-Child	Story
1891	Salome	Play
1891	The New Remorse	Poem
1892	Lady Windermere's Fan	Play
1893	The House of Judgement	Poem
1893	A Woman of No Importance	Play
1893	The Disciple	Poem
1893	To My Wife	Poem
1894	The Sphinx	Poem
1894	The Artist	Poem
1894	The Doer of Good	Poem
1894	The Master	Poem
1894	The Teacher of Wisdom	Poem
1894	A Few Maxims For the Instruction of the Over-Educated	Essay
1894	Phrases and Philosophies for the Use of the Young	Essay
1894	La Sainte Courtisane	Play
1895	An Ideal Husband	Play
1895	The Importance of Being Earnest	Play
1897	De Profundis	Letter
1898	The Ballad of Reading Gaol	Poem
1908	A Florentine Tragedy	Play
1909	Desespoir	Poem

The Oscar Project: Day 3 of 365

I am in the process of going back through my collection with the purpose of double-checking what I do and do not have, and discovering some missing pieces along the way.  I thought I'd be getting up my master list today, but I'm starting to think that won't happen.

In the meantime, I have been long itching to show off my Oscar collection.  I started with just one book when I was a teenager (the big purple one, you'll see it) and over the past 15-ish years, it has expanded.  They can't all fit nicely into one photo, so I've broken them into smaller groups, plus one of those that are older than 75 years.  Well, one is 74, but I gave it a pass.

Also, this turned into a MUCH longer post than I'd originally intended, so read at your own risk.

These are the biographies, some better than others.  Frank Harris (second in from the right) got there first, but as a contemporary of Wilde's, still caught up in the salacious scandal, he gets a lot of things wrong and/or sensationalises them.  Richard Ellmann's (4th from left) is probably the best known, though also gets things wrong and as such is responsible for some nasty misconceptions.  H. Montgomery Hyde has written three Oscariana biographies in my collection:  One general biography (the creased paperback in the middle), one focusing on the time of his sentencing to his release from Reading Gaol (The Aftermath) and one of Lord Alfred Douglas, which I have yet to read because I still don't want to have sympathy for him.  The big one on the left is a "pictorial biography" with lots of really fantastic pictures; the bitty one in the middle is an exploration of Wilde's friends and family by the actor and Wilde fanatic Simon Callow.  I've not yet read the Pearson one, and so can't speak to it.  The two best ones, though are (1) Constance: The Tragic and Scandalous Life of Mrs. Oscar Wilde by Franny Moyle, which I'm in the midst of reading right now and am really enjoying, and (2) Built of Books by Thomas Wright, which is one of the best biographies I've ever read, period.

These are my Vyvyan and Merlin Holland* books.  Vyvyan Holland was Oscar's only surviving child, Cyril having died in WWI.  He published a pictorial biography of his own (centre) and an autobiography, Son of Oscar Wilde.  The rest of them are by Merlin Holland, Vyvyan's son, who is not only a national treasure, but really a gift to the world.  He's done so much for Oscar's legacy, I can't even begin to express it, and will try very hard now not to verbally flail on about how incredible he really is.  I think—think—these are all of his books, though I may well be wrong.  The two on the left are collections of Oscar's correspondence over his life.  The Wilde Album is another collection of pictures.  Third in from the right, in yellow and red, is The Real Trial of Oscar Wilde, which are uncensored transcripts of his libel case against Bosie's father, the Marquess of Queensberry, and are quite a powerful read.  The red damask-print book next to Real Trial is called Irish Peacock & Scarlet Marquess, which is the exact same thing all over again, only with the title it originally had when published in the UK.  I guess American readers just couldn't do a book with that flamboyant a title?  Anyway.  Because they contain some of Oscar's most supreme wit, I'm going to include the transcripts in my Project, even though it isn't material that Oscar penned; it is important enough to me.  The last one is Coffee With Oscar Wilde, part of a series of books with similar titles, all of which offer insight into their respective subjects under the guise of meeting for coffee and chatting.  It captures the essence of Wilde using actual quotes where appropriate, but mostly just a very keen insight.  The first time I read it, I cried at the end, it seemed that real.

*Following the scandal, Oscar's wife Constance moved to the European continent with their two children and changed their surname to Holland, which is a family name from her side, to keep a low profile.

 These are all* of the anthology/"Complete Works" books I have, none of which are, actually, complete.  The big purple one is my first, the one that's been with me longest, and which stayed with me during my teens, through Uni, and now on to my adult life.  Other than that, there's not much else to say.  Oh, the pink one on the end is turned cover-up because the spine is too faded to read properly.

*Not actually.  I've one more, a neon pink (no, really) hard cover tome which lives in my car so that I always have something guaranteed to be good if I'm stuck in a place and need to read.  I'd have included it here, only it is very cold outside today, and I'm quite lazy.

These are the books I have which, the Complete Works collections aside, are specifically Oscar's fiction.  The four in the middle are short(er) stories, and my two copies of The Picture of Dorian Gray are on either side.  I'm actually quite proud of myself that (again, Complete Works not withstanding) I only own two copies of Dorian, because there are so many pretty versions of it out there.  I've seen a couple that I may try to collect some day, which are beautifully illustrated inside and out.  The big one is one of my antique books, and so doesn't get much handling, whereas the paperback is my standby, and has been with me for more than ten years - by the spine you can tell it's well loved.

These are my poetry, prose, and other non-fiction anthologies which aren't from Merlin Holland.  The two of note are  (1) The Artist as Critic, from biographer Richard Ellmann, is a collection of his essays, literary criticism, and other such writings, and (2) The Uncollected Oscar Wilde, compiled by John Wyse Jackson, another collection of essays, lectures, and critical writings.  It is primarily thanks to these two that I'm now revising and expanding my master list.

 These are a hodgepodge of analysis, Oscariana fiction, and other such offerings.  From left to right:

• Wilde - the script of the movie starring Stephen Fry as Wilde and Jude Law as Bosie.  It is beautifully and lovingly crafted, the soundtrack is impeccable, and if you've never seen it, please very much do so.
• Oscar Wilde and A Death of No Importance by Gyles Brandreth - This is a truly silly thing, fiction, casting Oscar as a Holmesian detective when he's not dandying about writing plays or bumming rentboys.  It can only be described as bizarre, and contains an honest to god "What's in the box?!" moment.  Better yet, it is part of a series, which I think I need to get, against my better judgement.  Also, the author was a Conservative MP.
• Oscar Wilde and the Yellow Nineties by Frances Winwar - Originally published in the '40s, this is an exploration of the Gay Nineties/Belle Epoque, as centred around Oscar and his circle, as well as other outliers.
• Oscar Wilde: A Long and Lovely Suicide by Melissa Knox - a psychoanalysis of the man and his works.  I've yet to read this, and am saving it for when I've finished this grand escapade.
• Oscar Wilde: A Study, From the French of Andre Gide - From the French author and Nobel laureate, this book is a reprint of a translation from the Cornell University library collection, dating back to 1905.  "M. Gide's Study of Mr. Oscar Wilde (perhaps the best account yet written of the poet's latter days) appeared first in L'Ermitage, a monthly literary review, in June, 1902.  It was afterwards reprinted with some few slight alterations in a volume of critical essays... by M. Gide.  It is now published in English for the first time, by special arrangement with the author."
• Oscar Wilde by Katherine Worth - An analysis of his plays, both well known and obscure.
• Gross Indecency: The Three Trials of Oscar Wilde by Moises Kaufman - This is a fantastic play, originally starring the brilliant Michael Emerson (Ben Linus from LOST, among others) as Oscar.
• I Give You Oscar Wilde by Desmond Hall - a "biographical novel".  I've also not read this yet.
• Oskar Wilde sein drama von Carl Sternheim - Look, I don't speak or read German.  But I know it is a dramatic play about Oscar and his trials, similar to Gross Indecency.  It is old as hell and falling apart, but some day, I swear it, I shall teach myself German by reading this.

And these are the antiques*, dating from a Collected Works volume from 1941 (far left) to another Works Of volume from 1909.  The books are not in order, but are dated as follows (left to right): 1941, 1931 (#361 of 1500 copies), 1930, 1925 (the German play), 1935, 1927, 1909 (#396 of 1000).  Some pictures of the interior pages of each follow, with the exception of the actual antique, which will eventually get its own post, as it is Very Special.

*I'm using this term liberally, I know.  Common practice is that only books over 100 years old are proper antiques, of which I have the one.  However, as they're all at least pushing that mark, they count to me, damn it.  

From 1941

From 1931

Dorian #361/1500

From 1930

From 1925

"What is needed is individualism!" from The Soul of Man Under Socialism

The play came originally from a bookseller in Oxford

From 1935

From 1927

The Oscar Project: Day 1 of 365

I'll do a larger post on this over the weekend with lists and such, but here it is—my new year's resolution, life enrichment activity, whatever.  I am simply calling it: The Oscar Project.

In 2015, it is my intention to read every available writing of Oscar Wilde, in as much of a chronological order as I can manage.  Though I have ready many of his more major works over the years, I've never done an undertaking like this before.  By reading everything I can find, in roughly the order which he wrote it, I hope to gain a deeper understanding and appreciation for the figure I have admired and adored for roughly half of my life.

He was quite prolific, not just the one novel and nine plays (yes, nine, there are four that are less popular).  He wrote upwards of 75 known poems—I'm convinced my list is lacking—14 short stories, hundreds of letters ("De Profundis" being The One Everyone Knows), as well as at least 44 essays and notable reviews, and four popular lectures that were given repeatedly in the UK and the US.

I've got... a lot.  A lot of books, a lot of saved articles and online archives I've gathered over the past 15 years or so.  But I know I don't have everything.  So that will be part of the fun throughout the year, sleuthing and researching to find the more obscure bits that have been lost to all but academia.

Today I will start with "San Miniato", a poem he wrote, depending on whom you ask, between 1875 (the earliest attribution I can find) and 1881, when it was included in his first book of collected poetry.  Roughly 20 years after this was penned, at the end of his life, Oscar converted to Catholicism and was known to be quite fond of Mary, the mother of Jesus.  Though my guess is that this was inspired by one of his many collegiate trips to Italy, where the town of San Miniato is home to a well known cathedral, it is frankly a little chilling that what is arguably his earliest known work brings his life full circle.  Note also the themes of a journey's end and repentance.

San Miniato, ca. 1875-1881

SEE, I have climbed the mountain side
  Up to this holy house of God,
  Where once that Angel-Painter trod
Who saw the heavens opened wide,

  And throned upon the crescent moon
  The Virginal white Queen of Grace,—
  Mary! could I but see thy face
Death could not come at all too soon.

  O crowned by God with thorns and pain!
  Mother of Christ! O mystic wife!
  My heart is weary of this life
And over-sad to sing again.

  O crowned by God with love and flame!
  O crowned by Christ the Holy One!
  O listen ere the searching sun
Show to the world my sin and shame.

This Is The End

Well, we're about T-20 minutes to the start of our final Changeling session.  The gaming group (also of Deadlands fame) will be staying together, although we'll be going on some sort of hiatus due to some GM family stuff.  All positive, just not conducive to gaming.

The game session will be up, as always, a million years after the last session, although I'll make some effort—I swear, guys!—to get it up a bit speedier this time, perhaps.

I've really enjoyed myself, and it is going to be really hard to leave behind this poor little tortured artist boy.  This character had been kicking around in my head for years.  I almost played him in another, though less moody, Changeling game when I was either just out of college or about to be at that point.  And that was approximately 7 years ago, so yeah...  He's had such a head canon life of his own, that M'Colleague and I have a nickname for him, Tennant Fae, because, well, he's always been "played by" David Tennant.

I'm a huge nerd.

So there you go.  This is the end.  Play us out, Jim...