New handwritten love letters from Oscar Wilde have recently resurfaced, most of which regard professional matters, while some concern some very, very unprofessional matters.
"This is all wrong, isn't it," he saucily pens in one of the notes. In an 1887 letter, he invites fellow editor Alsager Vian out for some "cigars and Italian wine," which may or may not have been the 1887 equivalent to brunch-and-mimosas.
And it only gets sillier:
Will be home tomorrow afternoon, so glad if you come down for tea. We must have an Evening together soon over our journalism article. … Come and dine at Pagani's in Portland Street on Friday 7.30pm. No dress, just ourselves and a flask of Italian wine. Afterwards we will smoke cigarettes and Talk over the Journalistic article, could we go to your rooms, I am so far off, and clubs are difficult to Talk in. Till Thursday night. This is all wrong, isn't it. Truly yours, Oscar Wilde.
If that sounds strikingly similar to the last drunk text you sent out, then perhaps you are a 21st Century Oscar Wilde. But… you're probably not.