Clapham Junction by Oscar Wilde

My lot has been one of public infamy, of long imprisonment, of misery, of / ruin, of disgrace, but I am not worthy of it -- not yet, at any rate. I / remember that I used to say that I thought I could bear a real tragedy if / it came to me with purple pall and a mask of noble sorrow, but that the / dreadful thing about modernity was that it put tragedy into the raiment / of comedy, so that the great realities seemed commonplace or grotesque or / lacking in style. It is quite true about modernity. It has probably / always been true about actual life. It is said that all martyrdoms / seemed mean to the looker on. The nineteenth century is no exception to / the rule.

Everything about my tragedy has been hideous, mean, repellent, lacking in / style; our very dress makes us grotesque. We are the zanies of sorrow. / We are clowns whose hearts are broken. We are specially designed to / appeal to the sense of humour. On November 13th, 1895, I was brought / down here from London. From two o'clock till half-past two on that day I / had to stand on the centre platform of Clapham Junction in convict dress, / and handcuffed, for the world to look at. I had been taken out of the / hospital ward without a moment's notice being given to me. Of all / possible objects I was the most grotesque. When people saw me they / laughed. Each train as it came up swelled the audience. Nothing could / exceed their amusement. That was, of course, before they knew who I was. / As soon as they had been informed they laughed still more. For half an / hour I stood there in the grey November rain surrounded by a jeering / mob. -- _De Profundis_.