personal lives of their own. At all events, in the case of Oscar Wilde, the pen was but one of the various media by means of which he chose to present to the world the one work of art with which alone he was concerned to impress it—himself. If the pen is mightier than the sword, in his case the tongue was mightier than the pen, as he himself, as I have just quoted, preferred it should be; and as anyone who ever heard him talk will admit was a true self-judgment.
Yet now, when "the great silent talker makes no sign," we naturally turn to those writings which, sometimes, according to his whim, he would affect to treat lightly, as though they were really hardly worth mentioning, mere trifling accidents of the true colossal greatness which was—himself; and sometimes, would affect to treat with a portentous solemnity all his own. What he really meant he least of all cared to know. Indeed, he was one of those natures who find an unfading fascination in not being able to understand themselves. I believe that, if Oscar Wilde had for once understood himself, he would have committed suicide out of sheer ennui.
With him the questions were not so much
