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No, the lily is mine, not his, he writes.
In our first script,Her white feet
brush the dew from the cowslips in the morning.
Twilight in my cell andtwilight
in my heart.
His wit is tarnished since he passed over. I am ashadow and the
life here, the shadow of a shadow. I felt she had been memorising my lines with
an inwardappreciation of my intentions. She had stopped laughing, and her
crumpled handkerchief fell to the carpet.
It is from that angle hespeaks of
Wells, Bennett, Philpotts, and Joyce.
Now he speaks withregret of that garment
which we call a body. Thisage of rasp is a positive pain to the Apostle of
Beauty, he is glad tohave escaped it. They might meet in the middle of Fifth
Avenue nowadays, for all that anybody cares.
But no one listened even to
Sillerton Jackson.
The gulf of his imprisonment and the gulf of his death. He
has insisted on speaking to the world again. Oh, but this one is still funnier;
the one with the tall feather in her hair!
It seems to afford him alittle
relaxation; why should I refuse it?
As he goes on he reminds us of Intentions
andDe Profundis.
I have endeavoured to analyse these writings honestly. I think
she got my idea better thanthe others. Heviews his brothers in literature with
a certain jealousy, I fear. He is still quite willing to talk and write.
Thelatter is the only author who escapes lightly.
And further: I have never
swervedfrom my ideas.
In several of the ouija scripts, Wilde speaks to us about
his ownplay-making. He has done his work competently, no doubt.
He is still
quite willing to talk and write. I think she got my idea better thanthe others.
A sad little effort this, to revive thefeelings of a different age.
Inmy time
the actors were helped and inspired by the perfumed and gownedattendants at
their work.
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