Oscar Wilde meets a young English lord by the name of Arthur Kirkland. Their friendship lasts through the years, years in which Oscar changes while Arthur remains the same beautiful young man. This prompts Wilde to write “The picture of Dorian Gray”
Bonus. Any other character from the book is inspired by Lord Kirkland’s strange friends. (France could inspire Lord Henry's creation, Italy or America could be Basil, etc. These are just suggestions, though, use whoever you want ^^)
So I have never felt less accomplished after having spent a month researching and writing something. What I have written is barely worth sharing, but they've been beta'd and read countless times, regardless of the stories' lack of plot. So I apologize to those who got excited when I said that I would fill this. I have no timeline and no actual plot (I never do. Ever.) but I thought that I would put a few up while I'm still working on some others. As proof that I didn't forget, etc. Notes will be at the end.
Dear Heart, I think the young impassioned priest When first he takes from out the hidden shrine His God imprisoned in the Eucharist, And eats the bread, and drinks the dreadful wine, Feels not such awful wonder as I felt When first my smitten eyes beat full on thee. And all night long before thy feet I knelt Till thou wert wearied of Idolatry. Ah! hadst thou liked me less and loved me more, Through all those summer days of joy and rain, I had not now been sorrow’s heritor, Or stood a lackey in the House of Pain. Yet, though remorse, youth’s white-faced seneschal, Tread on my heels with all his retinue, I am most glad I loved thee—this of all The suns that go to make one speedwell blue! --Oscar Wilde's "Quia Multum Amavi" from The Fourth Movement
The way the man held his wine glass—cradled in his hand like a child might hold a sparrow—instantly attracted Oscar’s attention. His hair and clothing and demeanor were what held his mind captive throughout the dinner party. His frock and waistcoat were crisp and pressed and his hair was cut short—far too short for his apparent age—and although his French friend was dressed more chic, more in style, the shorter man was dressed much more richly. There was no more hiding the expensive gold filigree pocket watch as there was of disguising those magnificent eyebrows under limp, golden hair.
Oscar finally inquired to his name and status ten minutes into the oysters. His literary agent, Colonel Morse—who knew everything about everyone—divulged that the man was a Mr. Arthur Kirkland, an aide in the Houses of Parliament. No one at the table could tell Oscar how old the man was; it seemed as though he had lived alone for some time on North End and had been in attendance at London’s finest soirees when not abroad on diplomatic business. A few guests were of the opinion that Mr. Kirkland was stodgy and more stoic than was considered attractive in a young man, although another fellow, with white hair and a snort to his laugh, added that the man was quite a lover of literature and could speak volumes on all nature of books and poetry. And if Oscar had been only intrigued before, the older gentleman’s gossip had ensnared his interest quite thoroughly. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ From the other end of the dining table, there came a peal of laughter.
“Of course, I have always been fond of Keats’ ‘Happy is England! I could be content’,” the Frenchman said with a raise of his chin and a darting glance at Mr. Kirkland. “What was that line, Arthur? ‘If her daughters be artless—‘”
“’Happy is England, sweet her artless daughters; enough their simply loveliness for me, enough their whitest arms in silence clinging—“
“Yes, yes, that’s how it goes.” Mr. Bonnefoy waved his hand dismissively. Mr. Kirkland scowled at him.
“I would have cast you with the lovers of ‘La Belle Dame sans Merci’, Francis.”
“That one is wonderful as well! But it is almost as if Mr. Keats knew England personally. ‘To sit upon an Alp as a throne’ he said. How true that is.” With a carefully hidden drop of an eyelid and a crinkle of an otherwise perfect brow, Francis set his wine glass down. While his fingers continued to circle the rim of the glass, his blue eyes never left Arthur’s scowling face.
The evening that Oscar finally joined Arthur for dinner was uneventful. They talked more of poetry and of art, even with Arthur’s professed lack of knowledge with regards to the latter, and eventually about Pater’s The Renaissance.
“Pater is a most ingenious man,” Arthur said as he struggled to release his cigarette case from his trouser pocket. “I can’t say that I endorse the lifestyle he recommends but for some—for some I can envision its benefits.”
“Such as Mr. Bonnefoy?” Arthur’s expression hardened immediately, but having only known him a few short months, Oscar merely saw a twitch at the corners of the man’s mouth and the crease between Arthur’s eyebrows. “I’ve never been a fan of Francis’ hedonism, but the example does indeed apply to him. I am, in truth, somewhat jealous of his—what was it?—ability to—“
“’Burn with a hard gem-like flame’?”
“That’s it. When Francis is great, he is truly great. Now,” Arthur lifted the cigarette to his mouth to inhale, “now he is much less so than he used to be.”
“His youth has faded.”
“Oh no. His youth will never fade. He will forever be as he is now. Although someday we shall be decrepit old men together. Someday. I am sure it will come. Later, rather than sooner, perhaps.” Oscar said nothing but watched the thin wisps of smoke rise up towards the dark, high ceiling. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ No matter the number of times Oscar had been invited into Arthur’s home, he was always surprised by the age of the decorations: there were baroque statues of armor (all fastidiously maintained), tapestries, and halberds and a flintlock musket mounted upon polished wood. The dark green drapes, embroidered by hand (which Arthur was very proud to note) cast the sitting room in an old gloom, although it was a gloom in which Oscar found himself very relaxed, or at least more relaxed than he felt at his own red-brick house on Chelsea.
At nearly every compliment which Oscar paid to the man’s furnishings, Arthur would reply: “You should see my brother’s.” Upon being pressed for more information about his siblings (which Oscar determined there were approximately four: three brothers and perhaps a sister), Arthur would always change the subject with a wave of his hand and a straightening of his waistcoat.
But Oscar was an observant man and entertained himself by examining the shelves in Arthur’s house, full to the brim with old books whose spines were beginning to crack. The newer ones were in the sitting room—some Keats, Shelley, Byron, Rousseau, Petrarch, Voltaire, Machiavelli, and others Arthur probably used to inspire conversation or were just granted as gifts. The man’s Shakespeare collection resided in his bedroom, away from most prying eyes. “It is an antique,” Arthur told Oscar once. “I don’t allow just anyone to see it.” Oscar contented himself with thumbing through the downstairs collection, with his fingers lingering over certain titles and his eyes studying the pale faces of the people in daguerreotypes. “She’s lovely.” Arthur gave a noncommittal noise from where he was in his armchair. “It is a pity that she probably doesn’t look the same anymore. Youth is so fragile.”
“You are quite in love with the concept of youth.” Oscar glanced over at Arthur, a smile barely there on his lips.
“To win back my youth, there is nothing I would not do—except, of course, take exercise, rise early, or give up alcohol. Speaking of which,” the man glanced at the grandfather clock sequestered in a dark corner, “it is nearly time for dinner. Would you join me at my club?”
Arthur uncrossed his legs and made to stand, his hands making their characteristic way down his front in their efforts to smooth out wrinkles.
“Sounds lovely. Shall I meet you? I will need to dress.”
“Of course, of course,” Oscar chuckled as he walked out of the sitting room and to the door where his hat was hanging. “Half past six, shall we say?”
Like Me Less, Love Me More (Drabbles 1c + Notes/1)
“As always,” Arthur’s face cracked ever so slightly with amusement. The skin around the man’s eyes, normally appearing so hard, softened just a touch—a touch that Oscar found himself admiring very much over the course of their acquaintance. He would find himself speaking before thinking on the off-chance that it might make Arthur laugh, which was, in and of itself, a delight for all to behold. But on dark and dreary London days, Oscar would settle for the crack in the veneer—one small hint of beauty which he knew Arthur possessed but never showed. And how tragic it was that such a beautiful man (he was a man, yet he appeared not much older than a boy), lithe and lean with pale skin and fair hair should never smile. Oscar attempted to pass it off as the stress from Arthur’s job, commenting once or twice on the stiffness of the man’s shoulders (“You know, Arthur, work is the curse of the drinking classes. Another scotch?”). ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ So I have a few more that take place a significant amount of time later. I'm having difficulty coming up with a way for Oscar to find out about Arthur....Errr.....any help would be appreciated in that arena. And pointing out anachronisms. No doubt there are a few....my apologies...
Also, my information comes from the following books: "Poems" and "The Picture of Dorian Gray" by Oscar Wilde, "Oscar Wilde and a Death of No Importance" by Gyles Brandreth (which is an amazing read. I highly recommend it!) and "Oscar Wilde: A Life in Letters" by Merlin Holland. I may or may not cite actual lines and references at the very end of my posting, or when I put these on my live-journal. I'm paranoid about running out of space! Damn character limits...
Re: Like Me Less, Love Me More (Drabbles 1c + Notes/1)
I brought Dorian Grey to college with me, but haven't had a chance to re-read it... mm, I must say that Henry/Harry/Henry (Wilde always seemed to change the name, iirc) would be a lovely Francis.
PARALLELS ARE FUN TO DRAW <3
Re: Like Me Less, Love Me More (Drabbles 1c + Notes/1)
Hnnnng, oh my god I am in LOVE with this. It moves so smootly and I don't care what you say about it being borish and not historically accurate, I think it's fantastic! Just the way they speak gives off the historical timeline!
ALso, in regards to how Oscar could find out about Arthur, perhaps he is searching for more information on him, via gossip from friends or well-knowers, and many older men can seem to remember Arthur Kirkland from their own youth, sortof a "Arthur Kirkland, yes I remember his face...Hard to imagine he must've passed his name onto his child" And then little things, like all the impossibly preserved relics, letters from the royalty displayed in his house, and Oscar just ends up piecing it together. Or maybe that search for gossip leads him to France, who has no problem telling him the truth.
Or perhaps he stumbles into Athur's storage room, to say. Or spots a relatively ancient portrait of him.
Anyways, do continue! 8D
Re: Like Me Less, Love Me More (Drabbles 1c + Notes/1)
OMG I love you so much right now, you can't even imagine ♥
Everything, from the language to the action, and the characterization, descriptions, plot, poem introduction, everything, was freakin AMAZING like you wouldn't believe. Seriously. It's great. I love it something hard. I also like the way you show Oscar's growing fascination for Arthur, and the later's subtle relationship with Francis. I can't wait to see where you take this.
As for suggestions on how he discovers Arthur's true identity, I think the suggestions given by other reviewers are all excellent, I don't have a preference. Just let me add that Arthur could decide to tell him himself, perhaps totally sober, or even drunk and/or after a heartbreak, an identity crisis or a whim. But whatever you make it, I'd prefer if he didn't go to France for answers.
Re: Like Me Less, Love Me More (Drabbles 1c + Notes/1)
This is amazing. You weave actions and words to create something that is way more than any of those things and can't be describe as anything else but 'beauty'. I love how you captured the tone of the era and Arthur's voice.
Wonderful. I hope you update soon, I can't get enough of this.
Seriously, I am the worst updater ever and I apologize for my tardiness. And my adverbs. I just can't help myself. I'll blame my study of the French language. Also, a huge shout-out proper to my beta reader for all of her hard work on the first and many parts of this ficlet. (This update here is un-betad. Because I felt bad for postponing any longer. Have some stream of consciousness....) ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Oscar ran away from his life in London to sit in the shade of old Oxford buildings which reminded him of his time as a student, fresh-faced and eager to learn. There was nowhere he felt more at home than underneath knotted and ragged old oak trees on cool days when the rain had just stopped and little droplets of water fell from the over-burdened leaves onto his coat or hair. Everything was auspiciously green, familiarly green, as though he was surrounded by it every day, even in London where the smog was oppressive and the people too tightly cramped together like vermin.
There was something about the English countryside, or about any countryside, for Oscar. He enjoyed the traveling, the journey, almost as much as his purported destinations, although he would think of a better way to phrase that before anyone asked him to explain it. Quite possibly, his love of the countryside had something to do with who was was not, or how he was seen. He would have time to ponder it away under his tree, although he could already feel moisture soiling the seat of his trousers.
Oscar could sit for hours, alone, and think outside. He would go in to his little room with its little desk to write, of course, but outside was where he did his best thinking. And when he struggled and wished for company, outside is where he found himself missing Arthur. Of all of his friends—the poets, actors, nobles, painters, scholars, doctors—Oscar found himself wishing that young Mr. Kirkland could have been there beside him, if not to offer comfort in their usual silence, at least so that Oscar could have an audience for his verbal musings. Although such outbursts of thought were truly rare, anything and everything happened to Oscar near Oxford where his mind was rejuvenated and his spirit refreshed by the green. And that same green was synonymous with Arthur, for reasons Oscar couldn’t quite put his finger on. Perhaps it was the color of the man’s most stylish ascot, although Oscar seriously doubted it; Arthur was always well-dressed but in an old sort of way which made Oscar feel more sympathy than contempt for the youth. His eyes--? It could have to do with Arthur’s eyes, as they widened considerably when he was listening closely to anything, everything, that Oscar said, even when he was telling jokes. Oscar’s every word seemed to have significance to Arthur, which was one of the many reasons for Oscar’s pleasure of the man’s company: eyebrows raised and mouth set firmly, Arthur was rapt, a captive audience, acting almost as if someday Oscar would reveal Arthur’s soul to himself. Such a feat could only be accomplished with the assistance of an outsider, of that Oscar was sure, but Arthur seemed like the last person to need such revelation. Although he was young, he was so old, so world-weary, that it seemed he could know no more of himself than he already did. Oscar himself felt younger in many ways, not yet young enough to know everything. That could have been Arthur’s secret.
Oscar flicked away a little bug from his nose and wondered again, for the thousandth time—no, it must have been more than that by then—if youth was really the secret or if it was merely a consequence of something greater, some wisdom or secret to life which led to youth, which was really just a state of physical perfection and nothing more…
The bug buzzed near Oscar’s nose yet again and was shooed away only by the man’s handkerchief. The motion interrupted his reverie and he lifted himself off of the wet ground. Straightening his coat and brushing dirt off of his rear, Oscar massaged at his nose with the cloth in his hand and began walking back to the buildings, leaving both his tree—the old, snarled symbol of life; how ironic—and his ideas. There was a little muse with a tinkling bell softly chiming near his ear. Without doubt it was infinitely more pleasant than a bug on his nose, but both served their purpose in calling Oscar to his pen. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Yeah....so....umm.....no books used for this part. There is a well-known Wilde quote in there and kudos to anyone who knows it.
Thank you to everyone who commented and especially for the suggestions. I really do work on this from time to time although it doesn't look like it and plan on finishing. Sometime. NaNoWriMo is coming up, so no promises! Thanks again for reading and putting up with my lack of updates. <3
Oh gosh, I'm sorry that I only stumbled on this now. I'm very much enjoying this, and really appreciate how much thought you're putting into it. Gentleman!England is a great plus too. I'm looking forward to more! :) Good luck with NaNoWriMo!
I love this! Such nice imagery, and damn, so British too, lol. Those kind of gardens in the fields only exist in English literature.
I like how intrigued Oscar is, not only by Arthur, but by his own interest in him. He questions himself as much as the other. I wonder if this curiosity about what exactly is it about the other man that is so attractive which will prompt him to search the truth...especially as he sees Arthur untouched by time. He already questions the years in Arthur's gaze, which I found ridiculously hot, since Arthur's green eyes mesmerize me...
I have decided on an ultimate theme for this story which I tried to hint at a bit in this horrible update and which will become more apparent as I post more. Hopefully.
And I agree completely with you on the subject of Arthur's eyes. Green eyes in general bewilder me. Anyway, I try not to be overly cliche with things, especially from Oscar's point of view because he was such an original. And if we ever say things that are overly trite, Oscar will call himself out on it. :D
I'll have more to post soon. Thanks for your patience!
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England, Oscar Wilde // Arthur inspired the creation of Dorian Gray
(Anonymous) 2010-08-16 10:50 am (UTC)(link)Bonus. Any other character from the book is inspired by Lord Kirkland’s strange friends. (France could inspire Lord Henry's creation, Italy or America could be Basil, etc. These are just suggestions, though, use whoever you want ^^)
England/Wilde is super ecouraged too ^^
Like Me Less, Love Me More (Drabbles 1a/1)
(Anonymous) 2010-10-07 10:31 pm (UTC)(link)Dear Heart, I think the young impassioned priest
When first he takes from out the hidden shrine
His God imprisoned in the Eucharist,
And eats the bread, and drinks the dreadful wine,
Feels not such awful wonder as I felt
When first my smitten eyes beat full on thee.
And all night long before thy feet I knelt
Till thou wert wearied of Idolatry.
Ah! hadst thou liked me less and loved me more,
Through all those summer days of joy and rain,
I had not now been sorrow’s heritor,
Or stood a lackey in the House of Pain.
Yet, though remorse, youth’s white-faced seneschal,
Tread on my heels with all his retinue,
I am most glad I loved thee—this of all
The suns that go to make one speedwell blue!
--Oscar Wilde's "Quia Multum Amavi" from The Fourth Movement
The way the man held his wine glass—cradled in his hand like a child might hold a sparrow—instantly attracted Oscar’s attention. His hair and clothing and demeanor were what held his mind captive throughout the dinner party. His frock and waistcoat were crisp and pressed and his hair was cut short—far too short for his apparent age—and although his French friend was dressed more chic, more in style, the shorter man was dressed much more richly. There was no more hiding the expensive gold filigree pocket watch as there was of disguising those magnificent eyebrows under limp, golden hair.
Oscar finally inquired to his name and status ten minutes into the oysters. His literary agent, Colonel Morse—who knew everything about everyone—divulged that the man was a Mr. Arthur Kirkland, an aide in the Houses of Parliament. No one at the table could tell Oscar how old the man was; it seemed as though he had lived alone for some time on North End and had been in attendance at London’s finest soirees when not abroad on diplomatic business. A few guests were of the opinion that Mr. Kirkland was stodgy and more stoic than was considered attractive in a young man, although another fellow, with white hair and a snort to his laugh, added that the man was quite a lover of literature and could speak volumes on all nature of books and poetry. And if Oscar had been only intrigued before, the older gentleman’s gossip had ensnared his interest quite thoroughly.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
From the other end of the dining table, there came a peal of laughter.
“Of course, I have always been fond of Keats’ ‘Happy is England! I could be content’,” the Frenchman said with a raise of his chin and a darting glance at Mr. Kirkland. “What was that line, Arthur? ‘If her daughters be artless—‘”
“’Happy is England, sweet her artless daughters; enough their simply loveliness for me, enough their whitest arms in silence clinging—“
“Yes, yes, that’s how it goes.” Mr. Bonnefoy waved his hand dismissively. Mr. Kirkland scowled at him.
“I would have cast you with the lovers of ‘La Belle Dame sans Merci’, Francis.”
“That one is wonderful as well! But it is almost as if Mr. Keats knew England personally. ‘To sit upon an Alp as a throne’ he said. How true that is.” With a carefully hidden drop of an eyelid and a crinkle of an otherwise perfect brow, Francis set his wine glass down. While his fingers continued to circle the rim of the glass, his blue eyes never left Arthur’s scowling face.
Like Me Less, Love Me More (Drabbles 1b/1)
(Anonymous) 2010-10-07 10:37 pm (UTC)(link)“Pater is a most ingenious man,” Arthur said as he struggled to release his cigarette case from his trouser pocket. “I can’t say that I endorse the lifestyle he recommends but for some—for some I can envision its benefits.”
“Such as Mr. Bonnefoy?” Arthur’s expression hardened immediately, but having only known him a few short months, Oscar merely saw a twitch at the corners of the man’s mouth and the crease between Arthur’s eyebrows.
“I’ve never been a fan of Francis’ hedonism, but the example does indeed apply to him. I am, in truth, somewhat jealous of his—what was it?—ability to—“
“’Burn with a hard gem-like flame’?”
“That’s it. When Francis is great, he is truly great. Now,” Arthur lifted the cigarette to his mouth to inhale, “now he is much less so than he used to be.”
“His youth has faded.”
“Oh no. His youth will never fade. He will forever be as he is now. Although someday we shall be decrepit old men together. Someday. I am sure it will come. Later, rather than sooner, perhaps.” Oscar said nothing but watched the thin wisps of smoke rise up towards the dark, high ceiling.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
No matter the number of times Oscar had been invited into Arthur’s home, he was always surprised by the age of the decorations: there were baroque statues of armor (all fastidiously maintained), tapestries, and halberds and a flintlock musket mounted upon polished wood. The dark green drapes, embroidered by hand (which Arthur was very proud to note) cast the sitting room in an old gloom, although it was a gloom in which Oscar found himself very relaxed, or at least more relaxed than he felt at his own red-brick house on Chelsea.
At nearly every compliment which Oscar paid to the man’s furnishings, Arthur would reply: “You should see my brother’s.” Upon being pressed for more information about his siblings (which Oscar determined there were approximately four: three brothers and perhaps a sister), Arthur would always change the subject with a wave of his hand and a straightening of his waistcoat.
But Oscar was an observant man and entertained himself by examining the shelves in Arthur’s house, full to the brim with old books whose spines were beginning to crack. The newer ones were in the sitting room—some Keats, Shelley, Byron, Rousseau, Petrarch, Voltaire, Machiavelli, and others Arthur probably used to inspire conversation or were just granted as gifts. The man’s Shakespeare collection resided in his bedroom, away from most prying eyes. “It is an antique,” Arthur told Oscar once. “I don’t allow just anyone to see it.” Oscar contented himself with thumbing through the downstairs collection, with his fingers lingering over certain titles and his eyes studying the pale faces of the people in daguerreotypes. “She’s lovely.” Arthur gave a noncommittal noise from where he was in his armchair. “It is a pity that she probably doesn’t look the same anymore. Youth is so fragile.”
“You are quite in love with the concept of youth.” Oscar glanced over at Arthur, a smile barely there on his lips.
“To win back my youth, there is nothing I would not do—except, of course, take exercise, rise early, or give up alcohol. Speaking of which,” the man glanced at the grandfather clock sequestered in a dark corner, “it is nearly time for dinner. Would you join me at my club?”
Arthur uncrossed his legs and made to stand, his hands making their characteristic way down his front in their efforts to smooth out wrinkles.
“Sounds lovely. Shall I meet you? I will need to dress.”
“Of course, of course,” Oscar chuckled as he walked out of the sitting room and to the door where his hat was hanging. “Half past six, shall we say?”
Like Me Less, Love Me More (Drabbles 1c + Notes/1)
(Anonymous) 2010-10-07 10:39 pm (UTC)(link)~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
So I have a few more that take place a significant amount of time later. I'm having difficulty coming up with a way for Oscar to find out about Arthur....Errr.....any help would be appreciated in that arena. And pointing out anachronisms. No doubt there are a few....my apologies...
Also, my information comes from the following books: "Poems" and "The Picture of Dorian Gray" by Oscar Wilde, "Oscar Wilde and a Death of No Importance" by Gyles Brandreth (which is an amazing read. I highly recommend it!) and "Oscar Wilde: A Life in Letters" by Merlin Holland. I may or may not cite actual lines and references at the very end of my posting, or when I put these on my live-journal. I'm paranoid about running out of space! Damn character limits...
Re: Like Me Less, Love Me More (Drabbles 1c + Notes/1)
(Anonymous) 2010-10-07 11:23 pm (UTC)(link)I brought Dorian Grey to college with me, but haven't had a chance to re-read it... mm, I must say that Henry/Harry/Henry (Wilde always seemed to change the name, iirc) would be a lovely Francis.
PARALLELS ARE FUN TO DRAW <3
Re: Like Me Less, Love Me More (Drabbles 1c + Notes/1)
(Anonymous) 2010-10-08 01:08 am (UTC)(link)ALso, in regards to how Oscar could find out about Arthur, perhaps he is searching for more information on him, via gossip from friends or well-knowers, and many older men can seem to remember Arthur Kirkland from their own youth, sortof a "Arthur Kirkland, yes I remember his face...Hard to imagine he must've passed his name onto his child" And then little things, like all the impossibly preserved relics, letters from the royalty displayed in his house, and Oscar just ends up piecing it together. Or maybe that search for gossip leads him to France, who has no problem telling him the truth.
Or perhaps he stumbles into Athur's storage room, to say. Or spots a relatively ancient portrait of him.
Anyways, do continue! 8D
Re: Like Me Less, Love Me More (Drabbles 1c + Notes/1)
(Anonymous) 2010-10-08 02:45 am (UTC)(link)I love it. Keep going!
Op
(Anonymous) 2010-10-08 11:09 pm (UTC)(link)Everything, from the language to the action, and the characterization, descriptions, plot, poem introduction, everything, was freakin AMAZING like you wouldn't believe. Seriously. It's great. I love it something hard. I also like the way you show Oscar's growing fascination for Arthur, and the later's subtle relationship with Francis. I can't wait to see where you take this.
As for suggestions on how he discovers Arthur's true identity, I think the suggestions given by other reviewers are all excellent, I don't have a preference. Just let me add that Arthur could decide to tell him himself, perhaps totally sober, or even drunk and/or after a heartbreak, an identity crisis or a whim. But whatever you make it, I'd prefer if he didn't go to France for answers.
Re: Like Me Less, Love Me More (Drabbles 1c + Notes/1)
(Anonymous) 2010-10-09 01:07 am (UTC)(link)Re: Like Me Less, Love Me More (Drabbles 1c + Notes/1)
(Anonymous) 2010-10-09 01:37 am (UTC)(link)Wonderful. I hope you update soon, I can't get enough of this.
You posted it!
(Anonymous) 2010-10-10 01:29 am (UTC)(link)I love the title-- you've decided to make it Arthur/Oscar then?
Looking forward to more, dear. Nice job <3.
Love,
Anonymous xDD
Re: Like Me Less, Love Me More (Drabbles 1c + Notes/1)
(Anonymous) 2010-10-10 10:37 pm (UTC)(link)There just isn't enough witty, gentleman-ly England. I adore it so much and the dialogue is gorgeous/perfect/synonym-for-amazing.
Like Me Less, Love Me More (Drabbles 2a/?)
(Anonymous) 2010-10-27 08:08 am (UTC)(link)~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Oscar ran away from his life in London to sit in the shade of old Oxford buildings which reminded him of his time as a student, fresh-faced and eager to learn. There was nowhere he felt more at home than underneath knotted and ragged old oak trees on cool days when the rain had just stopped and little droplets of water fell from the over-burdened leaves onto his coat or hair. Everything was auspiciously green, familiarly green, as though he was surrounded by it every day, even in London where the smog was oppressive and the people too tightly cramped together like vermin.
There was something about the English countryside, or about any countryside, for Oscar. He enjoyed the traveling, the journey, almost as much as his purported destinations, although he would think of a better way to phrase that before anyone asked him to explain it. Quite possibly, his love of the countryside had something to do with who was was not, or how he was seen. He would have time to ponder it away under his tree, although he could already feel moisture soiling the seat of his trousers.
Oscar could sit for hours, alone, and think outside. He would go in to his little room with its little desk to write, of course, but outside was where he did his best thinking. And when he struggled and wished for company, outside is where he found himself missing Arthur. Of all of his friends—the poets, actors, nobles, painters, scholars, doctors—Oscar found himself wishing that young Mr. Kirkland could have been there beside him, if not to offer comfort in their usual silence, at least so that Oscar could have an audience for his verbal musings. Although such outbursts of thought were truly rare, anything and everything happened to Oscar near Oxford where his mind was rejuvenated and his spirit refreshed by the green. And that same green was synonymous with Arthur, for reasons Oscar couldn’t quite put his finger on. Perhaps it was the color of the man’s most stylish ascot, although Oscar seriously doubted it; Arthur was always well-dressed but in an old sort of way which made Oscar feel more sympathy than contempt for the youth. His eyes--? It could have to do with Arthur’s eyes, as they widened considerably when he was listening closely to anything, everything, that Oscar said, even when he was telling jokes. Oscar’s every word seemed to have significance to Arthur, which was one of the many reasons for Oscar’s pleasure of the man’s company: eyebrows raised and mouth set firmly, Arthur was rapt, a captive audience, acting almost as if someday Oscar would reveal Arthur’s soul to himself. Such a feat could only be accomplished with the assistance of an outsider, of that Oscar was sure, but Arthur seemed like the last person to need such revelation. Although he was young, he was so old, so world-weary, that it seemed he could know no more of himself than he already did. Oscar himself felt younger in many ways, not yet young enough to know everything. That could have been Arthur’s secret.
Oscar flicked away a little bug from his nose and wondered again, for the thousandth time—no, it must have been more than that by then—if youth was really the secret or if it was merely a consequence of something greater, some wisdom or secret to life which led to youth, which was really just a state of physical perfection and nothing more…
Like Me Less, Love Me More (Drabbles 2b/?)
(Anonymous) 2010-10-27 08:11 am (UTC)(link)~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Yeah....so....umm.....no books used for this part. There is a well-known Wilde quote in there and kudos to anyone who knows it.
Thank you to everyone who commented and especially for the suggestions. I really do work on this from time to time
although it doesn't look like itand plan on finishing. Sometime. NaNoWriMo is coming up, so no promises! Thanks again for reading and putting up with my lack of updates. <3Re: Like Me Less, Love Me More (Drabbles 2b/?)
(Anonymous) 2010-10-28 06:15 am (UTC)(link)Op
(Anonymous) 2010-10-28 10:35 pm (UTC)(link)I like how intrigued Oscar is, not only by Arthur, but by his own interest in him. He questions himself as much as the other. I wonder if this curiosity about what exactly is it about the other man that is so attractive which will prompt him to search the truth...especially as he sees Arthur untouched by time. He already questions the years in Arthur's gaze, which I found ridiculously hot, since Arthur's green eyes mesmerize me...
Author-Anon!
(Anonymous) 2010-10-28 10:49 pm (UTC)(link)I have decided on an ultimate theme for this story which I tried to hint at a bit in this
horribleupdate and which will become more apparent as I post more. Hopefully.And I agree completely with you on the subject of Arthur's eyes. Green eyes in general bewilder me. Anyway, I try not to be overly cliche with things, especially from Oscar's point of view because he was such an original. And if we ever say things that are overly trite, Oscar will call himself out on it. :D
I'll have more to post soon. Thanks for your patience!
Re: Like Me Less, Love Me More (Drabbles 2b/?)
(Anonymous) 2010-11-01 03:46 am (UTC)(link)