salomé

there is a photograph that has always disturbed me. it comes not from the depths of the /b/ board, but from richard elleman's oscar wilde biography, where it is identified as oscar wilde himself:



part of the horror was the irrepressible urge to fondle his man-breasts. (plus it didn't really look like his nose to me.) so it was with great relief that I learned today from an old guardian article that neither photo nor breasts are those of oscar wilde. they belong to alice guszalewicz, a hungarian soprano. wilde, and my heterosexual pretensions, are vindicated.