“To live is the rarest thing in the world. Most people exist, that is all.”
A most singular individual once penned a letter to his dear acquaintance, Reginald Turner, wherein he averred: “To live is the rarest thing in the world. Most people exist, that is all.” The ingenious gentleman to whom I allude is none other than the esteemed Oscar Wilde, that celebrated wit and author who saw fit to chronicle my life in his literary endeavors.
Whilst it may be the case that a considerable portion of the tale he narrated holds some semblance of truth, I daresay much of it was tempered, nay, downplayed, lest the full complexity of my character be laid bare. Verily, I am a man of greater intricacy and nuance than either Oscar Wilde or, indeed, any of you might possibly comprehend.
Indeed, Oscar Wilde did thrive in his existence, and I, too, have been living in a manner befitting my station. Since Basil Hallward completed that most singular portrait of myself, and Lord Henry Wotton's influence took hold, my life has been a veritable pursuit of hedonism. Prior to that most fateful of days, when I made the acquaintance of Lord Henry at Basil's residence, I was but a youth, unencumbered by the weight of worldly cares.
As a young gentleman of considerable means, bereft of formal occupation, what alternative had I but to devote my days to the pursuit of pleasure, as befits a dandy of refined taste and breeding? What else could one expect from idle, wealthy youths such as me, but a life revolving around the cultivation of beauty, the appreciation of the arts, and the indulgence in sensual delights?
At that juncture, despite the numerous young ladies and their matrons who harbored matrimonial aspirations for me, I confess I felt no inclination whatsoever to assume the role of a married man. The notion held little appeal for me, and I was content to indulge in the liberties afforded to me by my youth and my station.
Lord Henry Wotton's words insinuated themselves into my being, much like the wood-boring beetle that burrows into the heart of the tree, leaving a trail of destruction in its wake. Alas, the tree and I share a similar fate, though only one of us derives a perverse pleasure from the ravages of time and corruption.
Upon a morning of unremarkable routine, I find myself thus occupied:
- 10:00 o'clock: I awaken within my opulent bedchamber, feeling invigorated after a night's repose of satisfactory quality. I indulge in a leisurely sojourn upon my bed, taking pleasure in the contemplation of my youthful countenance as reflected in my late mother's exquisite, hand-crafted mirror. Alas, I ponder the day's prospects, beset by the query: "What diversion shall I pursue? What occupation shall I select?" The hours stretch before me, replete with possibility, and I am at liberty to choose as I please.
- Half past eleven o'clock: I convene with my valet in the sun-kissed morning room, its eastern exposure bathing us in the gentle radiance of the day's early hours. We partake in a leisurely repast, savoring delicate pastries, fragrant tea, and rich coffee, whilst perusing the morning's journals. My preference lies with "Town Topics", a publication renowned for its revelations of scandalous intrigue.
The latest edition titillates with accounts of the "Breckinridge-Pollard Affair", a salacious tale from the Americas that piques my interest. Other headlines captivate my attention, including "The Colonel...How he was led astray by a schoolgirl" and "...for ten years he suffered tortuous agony". "How deliciously scandalous! How utterly intriguing!" I exclaim, as I inadvertently spill a portion of my tea in my enthusiasm.
12:00 o'clock: I attend the solemnities of divine service, observing the formalities and social proprieties observed by the congregation. The assemblage includes many respectable young people of my acquaintance. Notably, I find myself the sole young gentleman unaccompanied by familial relations. My heart's desire is to form convivial bonds with other males, to share in their camaraderie and friendship. Alas, fate sees fit to beset me with an onslaught of young ladies and their matrons, who harbor matrimonial aspirations for my person.
"Dorian, dear Dorian, permit me to introduce you to my lovely daughter, Sally-Mae. You may recall her debut into society last November, an occasion of considerable note." Such are the tedious entreaties that assail me. "Madam, I implore you, desist," I long to retort, but propriety constrains my tongue.
1 o'clock: I partake in a Sunday luncheon at a fashionable establishment, amidst a gathering of friends and acquaintances. The company is enlivened by repartee and scintillating conversation, as we indulge in the latest on dits and news of society. Alan Campbell has procured Ward McAllister's tome, "Society as I Found It", a work that has piqued our collective interest. Though I vaguely recall perusing certain passages from the book, it wasn't until the topic arose anew that my attention was truly captured. The discussion proves most stimulating, and I find myself drawn into the debate.
Half past two o'clock: I subsequently take a leisurely promenade through the picturesque environs of Hyde Park, indulging in the beauty of nature and perhaps engaging in conversation with a captivating stranger. The sight of young gentlemen with a smile on their countenance and a secret gaze at me, unaccompanied by ladies; holds a particular allure for me, and I find myself drawn to their carefree and convivial demeanor.
5 o'clock: As befits a dandy of my standing, I present myself at my esteemed tailor's establishment for a fitting of my new attire, ensuring that I shall cut a dashing figure at the evening's gathering at the Pantheon in London. Oh, to have lived in the bygone era of the Macaronis! I daresay, I would have been a true Macaroni in those days, just as I am a dandy in this. Where might one find another young, affluent nobleman who rivals my flair for ostentatious, exaggerated, yet elaborate sartorial splendor? None, I dare assert, can match my full-blown grandeur. Were I to take up residence in the Americas, I fancy the sobriquet "Yankee Doodle" might be aptly applied to my person. I regale the tailor with the particulars of my eventful day, as he listens with rapt attention.
The tailor noted: “My dear fellow, it seems to me that you most certainly live, and live life to the fullest, at that! Your days are filled with a dizzying array of pursuits, from indulging in the finer things in life to navigating the complexities of high society. You embody the spirit of a true dandy, with your exquisite taste, refined sensibilities, and passion for living.
While some might say that your existence is one of idle luxury, I would argue that you are, in fact, a connoisseur of life, extracting every pleasure and experience from each day. Your reflections in the wee hours, no doubt, serve as a testament to your introspective nature, as you ponder the events of the day and plan for the adventures yet to come.
In short, you do not merely exist; you live, and you live with intention, purpose, and a deep appreciation for the beauty and wonder of life.”
Regardless of the diversions that may occupy the evening, I daresay I shall return to my abode at a late hour, possibly in the company of companions or acquaintances, and devote the small hours of the morning to ruminating upon the occurrences of the day and planning the morrow's escapades.
Now, my friends, would you aver that I truly live, or merely vegetate in existence?
