by Christos Polydorou
I have nothing to declare, said Oscar Wilde once in transit, but my own genius. And yet he ended up quite dead anyway in Paris at 46, after two years of manual labour, having been convicted of homosexuality, which was, in the late 1800s when this was all taking place, a crime of gross indecency. Death was inevitable. So was tragedy. So I might as well say as many things as I am not supposed to, thought Oscar Wilde, and did so.
I see no other way to live.