Love Is Not Enough. It Must Be

When I Was Young, We Thought That Oscar Wilde Was A Great Nobleman Who Had Thrown His Life Away For Love. Nothing Could Be Less True. He Slept With East Enders Who Were Procured For Him By Lord Alfred Douglas. He Knew Them Only 'in Braille' - The Curtains Were Never Drawn Back In The Rooms In Oxford Where He Met Those Boys. It Was The Most Sordid Life You Can Imagine. And He Was Bleating About Love And Dragging The Fair Name Of Mr. Plato Into The Trial - After A Life Like That?

You Must Stop This Interview Now As I Have Come To End Of My Personality.

I Can't Remember Ever Having A Tragic Demeanor. Although My Life Was Tragedy.

When Asked, 'shall I Tell My Mother I'm Gay?', I Reply, 'never Tell Your Mother Anything.

The Message That 'love' Will Solve All Of Our Problems Is Repeated Incessantly In Contemporary Culture - Like A Philosophical Tom Tom. It Would Be Closer To The Truth To Say That Love Is A Contagious And Virulent Disease Which Leaves A Victim In A State Of Near Imbecility, Paralysis, Profound Melancholia, And Sometimes Culminates In Death.