Complete Works of Oscar Wilde (Collins Classics)
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
The Collins Complete Works of Oscar Wilde is the only truly complete and authoritative single-volume edition of Oscar Wilde’s works, and is available in both hardback and this paperback edition.
Continuously in print since 1948, the Collins Complete Works of Oscar Wilde has long been recognised as the most comprehensive and authoritative single-volume collection of Wilde’s texts available, containing his only novel, The Portrait of Dorian Gray, as well as his plays, stories, poems, essays and letters, all in their most authoritative texts.
Illustrated with many fascinating photographs, the book includes introductions to each section by Merlin Holland (Oscar’s grandson), Owen Dudley Edwards, Declan Kiberd and Terence Brown.
Also included is a comprehensive bibliography of works by and about Oscar Wilde, and a chronological table of his life and work.
eastern sky. Crimson was the girdle of petals, and crimson as a ruby was the heart. But the Nightingale’s voice grew fainter, and her little wings began to beat, and a film came over her eyes. Fainter and fainter grew her song, and she felt something choking her in her throat. Then she gave one last burst of music. The white Moon heard it, and she forgot the dawn, and lingered on in the sky. The red rose heard it, and it trembled all over with ecstasy, and opened its petals to the cold morning
feet, and the very air is bitter with storm. Hush! I hear my wife’s voice. Enter LADY CHILTERN in walking dress. LADY CHILTERN: Good-afternoon, Lord Goring. LORD GORING: Good-afternoon, Lady Chiltern! Have you been in the Park? LADY CHILTERN: No; I have just come from the Woman’s Liberal Association, where, by the way, Robert, your name was received with loud applause, and now I have come in to have my tea. (To LORD GORING): You will wait and have some tea, won’t you? LORD GORING: I’ll
patriotic feelings are limited to an admiration for Niagara and a regret for the Elevated Railway; and, unlike the men, they never bore us with Bunker Hill. They take their dresses from Paris and their manners from Piccadilly, and wear both charmingly. They have a quaint pertness, a delightful conceit, a native self-assertion. They insist on being paid compliments and have almost succeeded in making Englishmen eloquent. For our aristocracy they have an ardent admiration; they adore titles and are
‘Good-bye. I shall see you before ninethirty, I hope. Remember, Patti is singing.’ As he closed the door behind him, Dorian Gray touched the bell, and in a few minutes Victor appeared with the lamps and drew the blinds down. He waited impatiently for him to go. The man seemed to take an interminable time over everything. As soon as he had left, he rushed to the screen, and drew it back. No; there was no further change in the picture. It had received the news of Sibyl Vane’s death before he had
fills one with a sense of sorrows that have been hidden from one’s tears. I can fancy a man who had led a perfectly commonplace life, hearing by chance some curious piece of music, and suddenly discovering that his soul, without his being conscious of it, had passed through terrible experiences, and known fearful joys, or wild romantic loves, or great renunciations. And so tell me this story, Ernest. I want to be amused. ERNEST: Oh! I don’t know that it is of any importance. But I thought it a