By Harold Bloom, Paul Fox
Oscar Wilde's usually befuddled critics, who have been usually hung among admiration and outrage in regards to the writer. This version of Bloom experiences Wilde's the significance of Being Earnest, a great Husband, woman Windermere's Fan, and a lady of No significance. This sequence is edited through Harold Bloom, Sterling Professor of the arts, Yale college; Henry W. and Albert A. Berg Professor of English, ny college Graduate institution; preeminent literary critic of our time. Titles current an important 20th-century feedback on significant works from The Odyssey via smooth literature reflecting quite a few faculties of feedback. Texts additionally comprise severe biographies, notes at the contributing critics, a chronology of the author's existence, and an index, and an introductory essay by way of Bloom.
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Extra info for Oscar Wilde (Bloom's Classic Critical Views)
Wilde once; and a part of the Nemesis that has fallen upon her is a complete inability to understand anything he says. We should not find him so unintelligible—for much about him is Irish of the Irish. I see in his life and works an extravagant Celtic crusade against Anglo-Saxon stupidity. “I labour under a perpetual fear of not being misunderstood,” he wrote, a short time since, and from behind this barrier of misunderstanding he peppers John Bull with his pea-shooter of wit, content to know there are some few who laugh with him.
But his experiences cannot have been worse than I pictured them. ” —Robert H. Sherard, from Oscar Wilde: The Story of an Unhappy Friendship, 1905, pp. 183–194 18 Oscar Wilde Ford Madox Ford () Ford Madox Ford was an English novelist, poet, critic, and the editor of The Transatlantic Review and The English Review, two journals fundamental to the development of literary modernism. As a modernist, it is unsurprising that Madox Ford was not overly enthusiastic about Wilde’s literary output, as is evident in the following extract.
Be sure that in the dock of the Old Bailey, in his cell at Reading, on “the centre platform of Clapham Junction,” where he stood “in convict dress, and handcuffed, for the world to look at,” even while he suffered he was consoled by the realisation of his sufferings and of the magnitude of his tragedy. ” It is a grim loss to our literature that the creative faculty, which prison-life had not yet extinguished in him, did not long survive his liberation. But, broken as he was thereafter, and powerless, and aimless, the invincible artist in him must have had pleasure in contemplation of himself draining the last bitter dregs of the cup that Fate had thrust on him.