THE WEIGHT OF ANGELS

A dazzling counterfactual gives Oscar Wilde the long life he was denied.

What if Oscar Wilde had never risen to the Marquess of Queensberry’s bait? What if, instead of pursuing the libel case that destroyed him, he had ignored the infamous calling card accusing him of “posing as a sodomite”? In this bold, richly entertaining counterfactual, Boyne imagines a 20th-century life for Wilde, one in which disgrace falls first on his lover, Lord Alfred Douglas, known as Bosie—Queensberry’s son—who is tried for gross indecency, sentenced to hard labor, and later writes De Profundis and The Ballad of Reading Gaol. It is a deliciously provocative reversal, and one of the novel’s sharpest pleasures is watching Boyne redistribute history’s punishments and glories. Boyne is a gifted ventriloquist. His Wilde is extravagantly witty, sometimes too much so, but the epigrams are rarely mere decoration. They mask loneliness, vanity, and the sheer labor of living in a society where, as Wilde observes, “Everyone knows what I am, but no one dares say it aloud.” The novel’s great achievement is not simply that Wilde lives, but that he keeps living: through Edwardian England, two world wars, the advent of Hollywood, and the coronation of Queen Elizabeth II. That long life gives the book its melancholy power. Wilde becomes a Nobel laureate, a writing collaborator of Churchill, and, finally, a wistful judge of his own moral failings toward his late wife, Constance. The “weight of angels” is ultimately the weight of the dead: Bosie; Constance; Wilde’s son, Cyril; lovers; friends; and all those men ruined by laws Wilde himself escaped. Not everything is convincing. Some secondary figures are broadly drawn, and scenes of domestic ease between Wilde, his lover Gus, and Wilde’s sons can feel wishful, even sentimental. Yet even when the details feel awry, the central conceit is irresistible.

A witty and melancholy act of literary resurrection.