And peace come to Canterville

"Far away beyond the pine-woods," he answered, in a low, dreamy voice, "there is a little garden. There the grass grows long and deep, there are the great white stars of the hemlock flower, there the nightingale sings all night long. All night long he sings, and the cold crystal moon looks down, and the yew-tree spreads out its giant arms over the sleepers."

Virginia's eyes grew dim with tears, and she hid her face in her hands. "You mean the Garden of Death," she whispered. "Yes, death. Death must be so beautiful. To lie in the soft brown earth, with the grasses waving above one's head, and listen to silence. To have no yesterday, and no to-morrow. To forget time, to forget life, to be at peace. You can help me. You can open for me the portals of death's house, for love is always with you, and love is stronger than death is."

                                                         

                                                     Image credit to David Gardner
                                                 https://davidcgardner.wordpress.com/tag/illustration-how-to/

Falling in love with a borrowed book can be a very difficult affair. You cannot let go, but circumstances leave you with no choice. That's how, years ago, I had first read the story of The Canterville Ghost. Yet again, after The Happy Prince, Oscar Wilde had me moved beyond words, and mesmerized beyond belief. The infinite beauty of his words, and of the emotions they portrayed had overwhelmed me.
But I was literally living on borrowed time. The book had to be returned, no matter how much I wanted to read it over and over again, or how inclined I was to cling on to it.

Thankfully, the next time I read the Canterville tale, the book was all mine. I could read the above lines as many times as I wanted; till such time words metamorphosed into a picture before my eyes. There was the same feeling of awe and wonder and astonishment.  
The magic was the same that I had experienced while reading The Happy Prince, and to which I had devoted an earlier blog post titled,  Bring me the two most precious things in the city 

Oscar Wilde's writings have a unique, special beauty. Tinged with pathos, suffused with poignancy; the kind one might call heartbreakingly beautiful. 
Quite reminiscent of the immortal line, "Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought."

He describes Death as the tranquil passage into an everlasting sleep; where there is no pain, no grief, but an eternal calm. It is only pure love that can lead to such a blissful end. The Canterville Ghost had committed sinful acts in its lifetime, perpetrated the greatest sin of all, murder of a fellow being; and consequently suffered a brutal end. As a consequence of his actions, the peaceful slumber of Death eludes him, he knows no rest. 
The Canterville Ghost seeks salvation, he yearns for redemption. He is doomed to wander and suffer, till one day the 'golden girl' of the prophecy comes to the Canterville mansion. And in her loving, selfless heart lies the answer to his prayers of deliverance.

Oscar Wilde weaved magic with words; not the kind that dazzles your eyes but the kind that illuminates your soul. His writings are my lifelong treasure.