I am beginning to fall in love. Oscar Wilde is such a gorgeous writer! It's exactly what you've all been saying all along! He is constantly enchanting, with munificent scatterings of gold dust on every page. I start to read and before I've been at it longer than a minute, I'm so absorbed that it's a pain to break away when I'm called down to earth. He shocks me with one or two-liners like these (I underlined the phrase that made me laugh):
His own neighbour was Mrs Vandeleur, one of his aunt's oldest friends, a perfect saint amongst women, but so dreadfully dowdy that she reminded one of a badly bound hymn-book.
"They say that when good Americans die they go to Paris," chuckled Sir Thomas, who had a large wardrobe of Humour's cast-off clothes
He played with the idea, and grew wilful; tossed it into the air and transformed it; let it escape and recaptured it; make it iridescent with fancy, and winged with paradox.
All three excerpts are from Chapter III of The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde, published in 1891.
He is absolutely wonderful! This is turning out to be a real adventure, an enchanting elopement. In the words of Mrs Dalloway, "what a lark!"