A Birthday Shared With Oscar Wilde
Oscar Wilde was born on 16 October 1854, and so was I, more than a century later. That date has always followed me, a quiet link between my life and his. I did not chase it. It found me. Over the years the connection grew stronger and stranger, until Wilde became a kind of shadow figure standing at the edge of my writing life.
Reading Wilde’s Only Novel
I first met him properly in The Picture of Dorian Gray, the only novel he ever wrote. That book hit me hard. The beauty, the corruption, the slippery charm of its voice. Wilde understood temptation in a way that felt lived. People talk about his wit, but there is a darkness underneath that glows if you watch it long enough.
Living on the Same Street in Chelsea
I lived on Oakley Street in Chelsea without knowing Wilde had lived there too. When I found out, the street changed. Every doorway seemed to hold a trace of him. I pictured him sweeping past in a long coat, rehearsing lines, thinking of parties, already half broken by the world that adored him. History feels different when you find your own footsteps crossing his.
Standing in the Paris Hotel Where Wilde Died
Years later I found myself in the Paris hotel where Wilde spent his last days. The place is smart now, elegant and polished, but the walls hold the sadness of his slow decline. Wilde once said, My wallpaper and I are fighting a duel to the death. One of us will have to go. Whether these were his dying words or a joke made earlier, it still captures his spirit. Humour sharpened to a blade, even when everything else failed.
Oscar Wilde at Birkbeck: Proven by a Letter
People often repeat that Wilde lectured in London, but I wanted more than rumour. The proof arrived in the form of a letter written in his own flowing hand.
He wrote:
I lecture on Nov 4 at Birkbeck Institution.
That line struck me. I study at Birkbeck now, and seeing Wilde confirm his lecture there felt like another thread tying our lives together. A date. A street. A book. A hotel room in Paris. A lecture hall in London. Wilde keeps showing up ahead of me, leaving clues for me to uncover.
Why Wilde Still Matters to Me
Wilde believed the self was a choice, a performance, a shifting thing made from desire and defiance. When I look at his traces running through my own story, it feels like a reminder that every writer learns in the shadow of another before finding their own way.
If Wilde walked beside me today, he would laugh at the patterns and tell me there is no such thing as an ordinary life. Only stories. And sometimes the story chooses you long before you understand what it means.
I have spent years brushing against Oscar Wilde without planning it. We share a birthday. We shared the same street in Chelsea. I study at the same institution where he once lectured. I stood in the Paris hotel where he died and felt the weight of his last joke lingering in the air. Wilde keeps slipping into my life like a stranger with something to tell me, and every time I think the coincidence has run its course, another piece of him turns up in my path.
A letter Oscar wrote about an upcoming lecture at Birkbeck on 4th of November 1886
