Dolly Wilde
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dollywilde.bsky.social
Dolly Wilde
@dollywilde.bsky.social
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Letters of the only Wilde who loved women
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I want to thank you for the bouquet, the pleasure is indescribable—like all enchantment & there is something sad about being unable to tell the secret of pleasure.
Sitting in the DARK of the stairs while you take your bath! (Is this the ‘home-life’ I crave for??)
Darling, you know I mean all I say otherwise why should I have bothered all this time? (I'm lazy & selfish!)
That illicit dreaming done under the very nose of everybody—that apparent attention that sublime inattention—has a certain strange excitement that the unchartered dreaming of solitude lacks. All is perverse.
A slovenly, impossible atmosphere with the constant worry of someone incapacitated through drink driving the car, arriving home hours late etc. undermined what little discipline a ‘Wilde’ possesses!!
You seem as far away as a remote star—but the longest spears of your light strike into me with deadly precision. What should I be if I were near all those golden rays—that splintery fire?
Once again one realizes that people don’t know how to love & only think of themselves.
Well, darling,—don't you hear my sighing breath?—this is what I really think!!
You compel my imagination, make turmoil of my thoughts & every night I miss your lover’s attentions—what else is love?
But indeed Englishwomen appear to me ravishing after Paris. They are not just the chic voluptuous kind one passes in the street there—but mysterious, lovely creatures with uncertain exciting qualities, floating like Botticelli angels in their summer frocks.
Imagine—Virginia Woolf was lunching but postponed at the last moment. I was so curious to see her, because of her books and Romaine’s talk of her.
Do you miss me at all? The best of lovers have something of the accountant in them and seek a slight return.
and with all my knowledge I possessed you as deeply and as actually as if you had been there . . . that blinding lightening—like possession too swift, too acutely felt
I look very pretty but I feel 85
What fool said I was a 'poseuse'? It's too laughable. How could one be, darling? I've learnt so much that I've even lost vanity and no longer indulge in those 'emergency seductions' that I used to, where any admiration amused me.
Poetry—like music—breaks too sweetly on one's sensibilities and memories.
What has been your mood lately? Too tired & busy even to be unfaithful to me?
Une horloge paresseuse vient de sonner minuit lentement. J'aime la nuit car on y est à l'abri de la vie, ne trouvez-vous pas?
Why do I wait? Yet the waiting is sweet & in no way lessens my desire. Will your love outlast this delay?
And it was nice walking amongst those endless, pearly, naked women. I feel a little like an aesthetic young bachelor doing the Grand Tour!
you have become such a spirit that there is no slipping a hand into your tender palm, no pressing of sister lips.
but the feature that strikes one is the mouth—a full round mouth, a pretty girl’s mouth in that spinster face. It is so young, young like her skin that is smooth and soft.
Then as the evening wore on they paled to natural softness and one remarked the young wrist amongst other things. They aren’t Valentine hands like mine or petals like yours—but they have a beauty of sensitiveness and delicacy
Nous errerons (si ce mot existe) dans le crépuscule d'hiver tranquillement, sachant tout, disant peu, et après mon départ, vous ne saurez pas si c'était moi—ou l'ombre de ma présence qui vous a accompagné
Natalie dearest, Natalie darling
I’m going to spend the day in the country—take lunch at a farm house & drink the ‘unquenchable milky streams’ of Madame Mardrus’ Arcadian cows!