mailing list For webmasters
Welcome Guest
Where there is sorrow there is holy ground. Options
Daemon
Posted: Monday, August 19, 2019 12:00:00 AM
Rank: Advanced Member

Joined: 3/7/2009
Posts: 33,290
Neurons: 99,048
Location: Inside Farlex computers
Where there is sorrow there is holy ground.

Oscar Wilde (1854-1900)
KSPavan
Posted: Monday, August 19, 2019 1:36:07 AM

Rank: Advanced Member

Joined: 1/28/2015
Posts: 11,502
Neurons: 4,665,369
Location: Kolkata, Bengal, India
Quotation of the Day
?
Where there is sorrow there is holy ground.
Oscar Wilde (1854-1900)
Bully_rus
Posted: Monday, August 19, 2019 2:15:30 AM
Rank: Advanced Member

Joined: 3/26/2013
Posts: 3,475
Neurons: 352,724
Location: Minsk, Minskaya Voblasts', Belarus
Daemon wrote:
Where there is sorrow there is holy ground.

Oscar Wilde (1854-1900)


Yeah. It’s interesting, why joy can not provide such performance? What’s wrong with joy? Wait, is this a joke or something, Oscar?
taurine
Posted: Monday, August 19, 2019 2:45:17 AM

Rank: Advanced Member

Joined: 4/20/2016
Posts: 2,671
Neurons: 165,972
Location: South Dublin, Ireland
The complexity arose from the averments about causation of the pursuer's psychological difficulties under his claim for grief and sorrow.
J W Henderson
Posted: Monday, August 19, 2019 4:37:55 AM

Rank: Advanced Member

Joined: 8/7/2015
Posts: 125
Neurons: 949,629
Location: Chicago, Illinois, United States
The Sorrows of holy ground lead one toward melancholy thoughts.
Adyl Mouhei
Posted: Monday, August 19, 2019 5:16:07 AM

Rank: Advanced Member

Joined: 5/1/2017
Posts: 6,063
Neurons: 1,417,580
Location: Casablanca, Grand Casablanca, Morocco
Oscar wild is one of a kind.
monamagda
Posted: Monday, August 19, 2019 5:33:59 AM

Rank: Advanced Member

Joined: 2/4/2014
Posts: 8,611
Neurons: 7,255,443
Location: Bogotá, Bogota D.C., Colombia
Context from:De Profundis
(De Profundis is in large part an effort to find a way of rationalizing his suffering. "Where there is sorrow there is holy ground," Wilde writes, paraphrasing a stanza from Goethe that his mother used to recite.3 "Some day people will realize what that means. They will know nothing of life till they do" (DP, 29).)


. . . 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. The paralysing immobility of a life every circumstance of which is regulated after an unchangeable pattern, so that we eat and drink and lie down and pray, or kneel at least for prayer, according to the inflexible laws of an iron formula: this immobile quality, that makes each dreadful day in the very minutest detail like its brother, seems to communicate itself to those external forces the very essence of whose existence is ceaseless change. Of seed-time or harvest, of the reapers bending over the corn, or the grape gatherers threading through the vines, of the grass in the orchard made white with broken blossoms or strewn with fallen fruit: of these we know nothing and can know nothing.

For us there is only one season, the season of sorrow. The very sun and moon seem taken from us. Outside, the day may be blue and gold, but the light that creeps down through the thickly-muffled glass of the small iron-barred window beneath which one sits is grey and niggard. It is always twilight in one's cell, as it is always twilight in one's heart. And in the sphere of thought, no less than in the sphere of time, motion is no more. The thing that you personally have long ago forgotten, or can easily forget, is happening to me now, and will happen to me again to-morrow. Remember this, and you will be able to understand a little of why I am writing, and in this manner writing. . . .

A week later, I am transferred here. Three more months go over and my mother dies. No one knew how deeply I loved and honoured her. Her death was terrible to me; but I, once a lord of language, have no words in which to express my anguish and my shame. She and my father had bequeathed me a name they had made noble and honoured, not merely in literature, art, archaeology, and science, but in the public history of my own country, in its evolution as a nation. I had disgraced that name eternally. I had made it a low by-word among low people. I had dragged it through the very mire. I had given it to brutes that they might make it brutal, and to fools that they might turn it into a synonym for folly.

What I suffered then, and still suffer, is not for pen to write or paper to record. My wife, always kind and gentle to me, rather than that I should hear the news from indifferent lips, travelled, ill as she was, all the way from Genoa to England to break to me herself the tidings of so irreparable, so irremediable, a loss. Messages of sympathy reached me from all who had still affection for me. Even people who had not known me personally, hearing that a new sorrow had broken into my life, wrote to ask that some expression of their condolence should be conveyed to me. . . .

Three months go over. The calendar of my daily conduct and labour that hangs on the outside of my cell door, with my name and sentence written upon it, tells me that it is May. . . .

Prosperity, pleasure and success, may be rough of grain and common in fibre, but sorrow is the most sensitive of all created things. There is nothing that stirs in the whole world of thought to which sorrow does not vibrate in terrible and exquisite pulsation. The thin beaten-out leaf of tremulous gold that chronicles the direction of forces the eye cannot see is in comparison coarse. It is a wound that bleeds when any hand but that of love touches it, and even then must bleed again, though not in pain.

Where there is sorrow there is holy ground. Some day people will realise what that means. They will know nothing of life till they do, - and natures like his can realise it.

When I was brought down from my prison to the Court of Bankruptcy, between two policemen, - waited in the long dreary corridor that, before the whole crowd, whom an action so sweet and simple hushed into silence, he might gravely raise his hat to me, as, handcuffed and with bowed head, I passed him by. Men have gone to heaven for smaller things than that.


http://www.online-literature.com/wilde/1306/


Users browsing this topic
Guest


Forum Jump
You cannot post new topics in this forum.
You cannot reply to topics in this forum.
You cannot delete your posts in this forum.
You cannot edit your posts in this forum.
You cannot create polls in this forum.
You cannot vote in polls in this forum.