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First time I read The Ballad of Reading Gaol I was 19 years old to be exact. And to be honest everything I thought I knew about this poem was not only wrong, but completely misunderstood... I had this fiery passion within me, a certain naivity, seeing everything still with the poetic eyes of a young girl, who's often swept away at every sign of romance and love... For me there was nothing more beautifully sad than this particular poem. But reading and admiring words, maybe trying to analyze its verses, means nothing if you can't really relate to it...
I could definately see other people inside this poem. I could easily insert many of my friends and family at every verse of it, but living through others doesn't really mean you've lived, that you've experienced it, that you understand it... Today I can truly say I finally understand Oscar Wilde's words, because I have been there, I've done that, and I can surely say that most of us have done it, and those who haven't unfortunatelly shall... And that's why I say that we're all trapped at Reading Gaol, and that this is Oscar's greatest work cause of it's timeless and contemporary, it describes the world and its people, it refers to our relationships, with our loved ones, with family members, with our friends. And those who are still out of the cell, soon will join us all...
I don't mean it in a bad way, sorry if I am giving you such impression; I mean it in a way that we aren't perfect, we all have our sins, and till the day we die, we will have more...
The most tuching part of the poem for me starts here:
"(...)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"
If we stop right now, take a moment to sit and look back to our lives and think, we will find that thing we loved, and killed. Expand your horizon, and don't think only of your past partners, also don't try seeing yourself as the one who killed, but also as the one who died... Each man or woman will be in both positions in life at some point. But this shouldn't be a bad thing, cause every experience counts. And the only thing Oscar Wilde is pointing out is that we are not perfect, and that we can and most likely will find such fate.
As the poem goes on he enumerates the forms each of us kill the thing we love:
"(...)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, h
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:"
At this part of the poem Oscar Wilde shows us the many forms one can kill the thing we love, and most of them are not done physically... but morally, emotionally, and those sometimes I must say cause the deepest pain and scars.
Try thinking of all the times your mother has asked you for help, or friends you ignored, or sibblings you neglected...
Think of how you looked at them, or instead think of how they looked at you, and of how you felt and of how you made them feel. I dare to say there's nothing more painful than being looked like that by any of your loved ones, be it your boyfriend or girlfriend, husband or wife, best friends, sibblings, mother, father... It kills us, it kills them, and we wished an actual knife was being pierced through our hearts instead of ever being looked like that. But how does flattering kill someone? Flattering usualy leads to an inflated ego, to a misleading percepction of yourself, or of the one you flatter... Therefore killing the true essence and purity that once pulled you close to that loved one.
There are many ways of killing the thing we love, and not always it means it will be a litteral death, the main purpose of this poem is to show all the equally dreadful ways of killing love. And of how only one way is considered sinful and wrong, passible of utter judgment and finger pointing. I am a sinner, I have killed the thing I loved, I strangled it with the hands of lust... I was also killed by the same mean, I loved too long and loved too little, I did my deed with many tears, he did it without a sigh... But I didn't die a death of shame, I wasn't trialed and sentenced to death, I didn't walk with other souls in pain, although the pain for killing the thing I loved and being killed was/is an awful and great one...
How have you killed yours? How have you been killed?
I could definately see other people inside this poem. I could easily insert many of my friends and family at every verse of it, but living through others doesn't really mean you've lived, that you've experienced it, that you understand it... Today I can truly say I finally understand Oscar Wilde's words, because I have been there, I've done that, and I can surely say that most of us have done it, and those who haven't unfortunatelly shall... And that's why I say that we're all trapped at Reading Gaol, and that this is Oscar's greatest work cause of it's timeless and contemporary, it describes the world and its people, it refers to our relationships, with our loved ones, with family members, with our friends. And those who are still out of the cell, soon will join us all...
I don't mean it in a bad way, sorry if I am giving you such impression; I mean it in a way that we aren't perfect, we all have our sins, and till the day we die, we will have more...
The most tuching part of the poem for me starts here:
"(...)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"
If we stop right now, take a moment to sit and look back to our lives and think, we will find that thing we loved, and killed. Expand your horizon, and don't think only of your past partners, also don't try seeing yourself as the one who killed, but also as the one who died... Each man or woman will be in both positions in life at some point. But this shouldn't be a bad thing, cause every experience counts. And the only thing Oscar Wilde is pointing out is that we are not perfect, and that we can and most likely will find such fate.
As the poem goes on he enumerates the forms each of us kill the thing we love:
"(...)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, h
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:"
At this part of the poem Oscar Wilde shows us the many forms one can kill the thing we love, and most of them are not done physically... but morally, emotionally, and those sometimes I must say cause the deepest pain and scars.
Try thinking of all the times your mother has asked you for help, or friends you ignored, or sibblings you neglected...
Think of how you looked at them, or instead think of how they looked at you, and of how you felt and of how you made them feel. I dare to say there's nothing more painful than being looked like that by any of your loved ones, be it your boyfriend or girlfriend, husband or wife, best friends, sibblings, mother, father... It kills us, it kills them, and we wished an actual knife was being pierced through our hearts instead of ever being looked like that. But how does flattering kill someone? Flattering usualy leads to an inflated ego, to a misleading percepction of yourself, or of the one you flatter... Therefore killing the true essence and purity that once pulled you close to that loved one.
There are many ways of killing the thing we love, and not always it means it will be a litteral death, the main purpose of this poem is to show all the equally dreadful ways of killing love. And of how only one way is considered sinful and wrong, passible of utter judgment and finger pointing. I am a sinner, I have killed the thing I loved, I strangled it with the hands of lust... I was also killed by the same mean, I loved too long and loved too little, I did my deed with many tears, he did it without a sigh... But I didn't die a death of shame, I wasn't trialed and sentenced to death, I didn't walk with other souls in pain, although the pain for killing the thing I loved and being killed was/is an awful and great one...
How have you killed yours? How have you been killed?
