No, I haven’t gone back to the comedy club for another night of humiliation (Public Humiliation). Since I’m not seeing Bennett anymore (Bennett Bites the Dust), who else would be up for this adventure with me?
Instead, I’m sharing bits of trivia with you that I’ve been saving for just such a night, starting with Oscar Wilde, my favorite Irish writer.
Everything is about sex, except sex, which is about power.
Oscar was the master at boiling the truths of life down to one or two pity sentences.
Nothing much has changed since Oscar Wilde’s time in Victorian Great Britain.
We’d bought a map in a little kiosk just off to the left of the iron-gated entrance to Père Lachaise cemetery in Paris . Alan, my ex-husband, and I had picked out the names of the honored dead whose monuments we wanted to find; Oscar Wilde, the Irish writer who died disgraced and penniless in Paris, now resting under a striking Art Nouveau monument; Abelard and Heloise, real-life star crossed lovers from the 12th century, separated in death by the walls of their adjoining tombs; Frederic Chopin, the composer of deeply romantic melodies.