Letter from Reading Gaol

My dear Bosie, I must say to myself that I ruined myself, and that nobody great or small can be ruined except by his own hand. I am quite ready to say so. I am trying to say so, though they may not think it at the present moment. The gods had given me almost everything. I had genius, a distinguished name, high social position, brilliancy, intellectual daring. I made art a philosophy and philosophy an art. I awoke the imagination of my century so that it created myth and legend around me. I summed up all systems in a phrase and all existence in an epigram. Along with these things, I had things that were different. But I let myself be lured into long spells of senseless and sensual ease. I became the spendthrift of my own genius. Tired of being on the heights, I deliberately went to the depths in search of new sensation. Suffering is one very long moment. We cannot divide it by seasons. We can only record its moods, and chronicle their return. With us time itself does not progress. It revolves. It seems to circle round one centre of pain. I have learned much in this terrible place. I hope when I leave here to be a better and wiser man, though I know the world will not easily forgive. Your devoted friend, Oscar