Oscar Wilde
OSCAR WILDE (Dublín, 1854–París, 1900), poeta y dramaturgo irlandés, es considerado uno de los más célebres escritores en lengua inglesa de todos los tiempos, tanto por su provocadora personalidad como por su obra. Escribió relatos y novelas, como El retrato de Dorian Gray, poemas como el desgarrador La balada de la cárcel de Reading, y fue enormemente popular en el Londres victoriano por su exitosa producción teatral, como La importancia de llamarse Ernesto, y por su ingenio mordaz y brillante conversación.
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Reviews for Ballad of Reading Gaol
107 ratings4 reviews
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5From personal experience, Oscar Wilde writes his final work. While imprisoned at Reading jail for his homosexual acts, he witnesses a man executed for killing his wife. Thus he writes
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!
This poem is even sadder after reading about the circumstances in which it was written. - Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5It was really, really good though. Five stars good. I almost cried. I don't have a whole lot else to say about it. Apparently Reading was specifically designed to implement the separate system, so I expect Wilde probably experienced it.Bosie's testimony is what sent him to Reading in the first place, so... the obvious interpretation is a combination of that, and maybe whatever was wrong with their relationship in the other direction that led Bosie to do that. It's possible that being in Reading under those circumstances and witnessing an execution like the one described in the poem (which he did, the poem was inspired by an execution that happened while he was there), could have combined by resonating so strongly with each other to make him feel that he was seeing a great universal truth of some kind.
- Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5The pain of the author is almost too much to bear - even more so given who is suffering and why he is suffering. The injustice defies belief.
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5This beautifully-written six-chapter poem movingly portrays the monstrous inhumanity of prison life, and the stark-white hypocrisy of capital punishment. It also reminded me of Coleridge's Rime of the Ancient Mariner at several times, in the rhythm of its language (though the meter and rhyme scheme are different), as well as in the themes of guilt and imprisonment, the despair-induced visions of devils, and the metaphor of fate as a game of dice. First Oscar Wilde I've read, and I definitely want to read more.
Book preview
Ballad of Reading Gaol - Oscar Wilde
The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Ballad of Reading Gaol, by Oscar Wilde
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Title: The Ballad of Reading Gaol
Author: Oscar Wilde
Release Date: July 10, 2008 [EBook #301]
Last Updated: February 7, 2013
Language: English
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BALLAD OF READING GAOL ***
Produced by Faith Knowles, David Widger, and an Anonymous Volunteer
THE BALLAD OF READING GAOL
By Oscar Wilde
In Memoriam
C.T.W.
Sometime Trooper of the Royal Horse Guards.
Obiit H.M. Prison, Reading, Berkshire,
July 7th, 1896
Presented by Project Gutenberg on the 99th Anniversary.
Version One
Version Two
Version One
I.
He did not wear his scarlet coat,
For blood and wine are red,
And blood and wine were on his hands
When they found him with the dead,
The poor dead woman whom he loved,
And murdered in her bed.
He walked amongst the Trial Men
In a suit of shabby grey;
A cricket cap was on his head,
And his step seemed light and gay;
But I never saw a man who looked
So wistfully at the day.
I never saw a man who looked
With such a wistful eye
Upon that little tent of blue
Which prisoners call the sky,
And at every drifting cloud that went
With sails of silver by.
I walked, with other souls in pain,
Within another ring,
And was wondering if the man had done
A great or little thing,
When a voice behind me whispered low,
That fellow's got to swing.
Dear Christ! the very prison walls
Suddenly seemed to reel,
And the sky above my head became
Like a casque of scorching steel;
And, though I was a soul in pain,
My pain I could not feel.
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
He does not sit with silent men
Who watch him night and day;
Who watch him when he tries to weep,
And when he tries to pray;
Who watch him lest himself should rob
The prison of its prey.
He