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De Profundis - Oscar Wilde

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De Profundis by Oscar Wilde 

De Profundis

. . . 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 
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