Your appreciation has been the most intelligent, which persuades me that you think almost as highly of the play as I do myself. -He was never this friend of yours.
-Oscar. -Oscar Wilde.
-Oh, Jesus Christ! I knew you’re writing a new play. Superb. Constance, my dear beautiful wife, you and my sons are the things that tie me in life. Oscar, let’s run away. Somewhere no one could find us. You don’t know what you’re saying. -You don’t wear your silk stockings today, Oscar?
-You go too far, sir. No, you go too far, madam. I am a ruined man. Oscar Wilde, the crime of which you have been convicted is so bad. You must be dead to all sense of flair. It’s Oscar bleeding Wilde! Who shall under such circumstances pass the severe sentence that the law allows. The sentence of the Court is that you’ll be imprisoned and kept to hard labour for two years. For two years, I have lain on hardwoods, knelt on cold stone, dying on shame, and ready to return to life. I feel sure that if I was to see him once, I would forgive him everything. I can make you happy. Yes, you can. I dare say what I have done is fatal. Be careful, Rosco. I love him as I always did, with a sense of tragedy and ruin. There’s no mystery so great as suffering. And suffering is nothing when there is love. Love is everything. And in mortal combat with this wallpaper, Robbie, one of us has to go.