Amongst the Paris Dead: Oscar Wilde and Frédéric Chopin

I began writing this on the eve of a birth, followed the next day by a death, both of which occurred in the middle of the 19^th century.  Given the title of this little piece it’s not too difficult to discern that I mean Oscar Wilde, born October 16, 1854, and Frédéric Chopin, died October 17, 1849.  Both of these ghosts, friends as I call them, haunt me almost every day of my life—one with brilliant words, the other with melancholy music.

I had the pleasure to visit these old friends while visiting France this past summer and I felt compelled to write a little bit about it.  Their final earthly residence is within the stone walls of Père Lachaise Cemetery, located in the 20^th arrondissement in Paris.  Although Père Lachaise is a rather popular garden cemetery for wandering tourists, I was most pleased to find the grounds quite untrodden that day giving me much-wanted alone time with my brilliant friends.  Even though I speak with them often, either through rereading certain works or deliciously witty Wildean witticisms (say that five times fast), or by playing minor-key melodies seducing me to melancholia, I still felt an inexplicable desire to whisper secrets to them atop their graves.  I am glad I did.

Oscar Wilde’s The Picture of Dorian Gray, his only novel, remains a Gothic story I turn to just about every other winter since I first read it many years ago.  Between the elegant 19^th-century style language, Wilde’s gorgeous prose and hilarious sharp wit, and the well-dressed supernatural elements and desires, it’s difficult not to be intrigued by such a work.  There are delicious quotes abound throughout the entire novel, too many to write out in a short blog post, but there is one quote in particular that I have found most amusing over the last six or so years:

“I was working on the proof of one of my poems all the morning, and took out a comma. In the afternoon I put it back again.”

This quote did not appear in The Picture of Dorian Gray.  It did not appear in any of his plays, nor did it show up in any of his letters.  In fact, it never appeared in any of Wilde’s writing.  The quote comes to us as an anecdote from Wilde’s jest with a philistine at an English country house sometime before 1884, as it first appeared in an American newspaper, The Topeka Daily Capital, on June 5, 1884.  The anecdote either came from Wilde himself, or from someone relating the story about him, but either way the exchange at said country house went something as follows:

At lunch, an obvious enemy of literature loudly proclaims that all artistic employment is a melancholy waste of time, and turns to Wilde and says,

“So, Mr. Wilde,” said the philistine, “pray tell how you have been passing your morning?”

“Oh, I have been immensely busy,” said Wilde with a most serious manner.  “I have spent my whole time over the proof sheets of my book of poems.”

“Oh,” growled the philistine, “and the result of that?”

“Well, it was most important,” said Wilde.  “I took out a comma.”

“Indeed,” returned the philistine, “is that all?”

“Oh, by no means, my dear fellow,” said Wilde with a sweet smile.  “On mature reflection I put back the comma.”

Apparently this was just too much for the philistine who took the next train to London.[1]

Even though I love and adore so many of Oscar Wilde’s quotes, this one in particular has amused me most given my own experiences with editing poetry over the last six years or so.   Upon returning to old poems, much of my time was spent on removing supposed superfluous commas, and then, after a bit of “mature reflection,” putting them back again.  A melancholy waste of time indeed, but I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Frédéric François Chopin, born Fryderyk Franciszek Chopin, died in Paris at the age of 39 on October 17, 1849.  Chopin’s cause of death has been a matter of discussion and debate for some time, but the most likely cause was consumption, otherwise known as tuberculosis as it was named in 1839.  For me, very few composers rival Chopin’s brooding sense of melancholy found in his piano music; it’s a sort of pensive longing, an ethereal beauty that dies away quickly, but stays with you forever.  And it is exactly this longing, this aching for something that has haunted and inspired me over the last fifteen years, both musically and with regard to writing.  Even just recently I wrote a short five-stanza poem whilst listening to Chopin’s Nocturne in C-minor, Op. 48 No. 1 on repeat for an hour.  Perhaps one day I’ll actually be able to play that heartbreaking piece on my piano, but for now I’ll continue to let its melancholy notes inspire poetry.

Other works that have and continue to inspire me I will list below.  This is by no means an exhaustive list, but rather just a handful of some of his pieces that I have found myself listening to (and sometimes playing on my own piano) more often than others.

Nocturnes

1 – Op. 9, No. 1 in B-minor                                        12 – Op. 37, No. 2 in G-major

2 – Op. 9, No. 2 in E-flat Major                                 13 – Op. 48, No. 1 in C-minor

4 – Op. 15, No. 1 in F-major                                       15 – Op. 55, No. 1 in F-minor

8 – Op. 27, No. 2 in D-flat Major                               16 – Op. 55, No. 2 in E-flat Major

9 – Op. 32, No. 1 in B-major                                      17 – Op. 62, No. 1 in B-major

11 – Op. 37, No. 1 in G-minor                                    20 – Op. Posth. in C-sharp Minor

Preludes (all from Op. 28)

No. 4 in E-minor                                                         No. 9 in E-major

No. 6 in B-minor                                                         No. 13 in F-sharp Major

No. 7 in A-major                                                         No. 15 in D-flat Major

No. 8 in F-sharp Minor                                               No. 20 in C-sharp Minor

Again, this is such a small list with regard to the plethora of incredible music that Chopin has given us, but these particular piano pieces have been my constant companion during many a midnight hour.  I hope anyone who happens to read this little post and listens to them will find the same dark inspiration that I found many years ago, and continue to find to this day.

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[1] Although this information is scattered over the internet, from my own research it seems that John Cooper deserves the credit for the original research on Wilde’s comma-related anecdote.