Tag Archives: poem

I. Introduction – After the Curtain Falls

Some lives seem to end twice: once in the archive, and once again in the imagination. For the poet Olive Custance, her husband Lord Alfred Douglas (“Bosie”), and their son Raymond, the first ending is familiar: death in Hove, confinement in Northampton, an afterglow of notoriety fading into the footnotes of the Wilde story. The second ending—by which I mean continuation—belongs to the stage and to radio. In three related works, Thomas Kilroy returns to the Wildean world with unusual gentleness, allowing the Douglases to reach a cadence more humane than history typically grants them.

My interest here is frankly selective. This essay is written as a companion to a biography of Olive Custance and considers Kilroy’s plays as part of her afterlife in literature. The concern is not to re-litigate scandal but to ask how art can give grace to wounded memory. Kilroy—never sentimental, never cruel—refuses caricature. His people learn to tell the truth about themselves, and that is the condition of their release.

II. The Arc of Redemption

Kilroy’s three works—The Secret Fall of Constance Wilde (Abbey Theatre, 1997), My Scandalous Life (Gallery Press, 2004), and the RTÉ radio drama In the Garden of the Asylum (2012)—form a moral triptych: prelude, confession, coda. The first play, focused on Oscar and Constance Wilde, introduces Bosie as the “golden boy” whose beauty carries ruin; the second finds him old, bankrupt, Catholic, and eloquent; the third transfers attention to Raymond, who meets Lucia Joyce in the asylum garden and speaks, at last, in his own voice.

The structure is Aristotelian in the best sense. Tension rises to crisis and resolves in recognition: in the middle play Bosie is driven to a hard line of truth—“This thing of darkness I acknowledge mine”¹—a sentence borrowed from Shakespeare but weighted now with the fatigue of age. The catharsis is inward: each person arrives at knowledge that cannot be postponed any longer. Kilroy’s mercy does not erase responsibility; it makes responsibility bearable.

III. The Garden and the Gate

The most beautiful gesture in Kilroy’s theatre is a door. My Scandalous Life ends with a stage direction: Eileen helps Raymond to the exit; Douglas follows; the play ends.² The image asks for no commentary. That open doorway—a threshold more than a destination—becomes the moral hinge of the trilogy. What follows, in the radio play, is simply the space beyond it.

In In the Garden of the Asylum, Raymond and Lucia Joyce meet not in a clinic but in a walled garden that sounds like Shakespeare’s Arden. She says, with calm mischief, “We are meeting in the forest of Arden”; he answers with travel fragments—Trieste, Paris, Galway—until the asylum becomes a geography of memory. The doctors offstage debate “talk therapy” and pills; onstage the patients discover how speech itself can be a form of care. Near the end, an imagined train rushes through France—“Paris… Marseille…”—and the sound resolves into the chorale that opened Bosie’s monologue, Bach’s “Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring.” Noise is not denied but re-scored. The door, then the garden; the garden, then music. The arc is not escape but transfiguration.

IV. Gentle Christian Humanism

Labels can simplify what deserves tact. If I call Kilroy’s temper “gentle Christian humanism,” I mean only this: he listens. His sinners are granted literate self-defence; his saints (there are none) are spared hagiography. In the radio play, Dr Hermione Edwards declares, “The beginning of recovery is recovery of the patient’s basic humanity.” The line belongs above the triptych. Bosie’s confession is not theatrically convenient but spiritually arduous; Raymond’s frenzy is not mocked but attended to; Olive—silent, upstairs—becomes the atmosphere of conscience in which the living must speak.

“Confession” here is not the pageantry of guilt, but an art of attention. The plays are saturated in Catholic sensibility—chorales, prayer-language, the beat of ritual—yet they are never doctrinal pieces. Kilroy’s stagecraft accepts human limitation without sneer and discovers, within that limitation, a grammar of mercy.

V. Olive, Bosie, and Raymond Reimagined

Olive Custance is the most striking absence in Kilroy, precisely because she is everywhere. In My Scandalous Life she never appears, but her stick on the floorboards, her dying summons, her refusal of melodrama, govern the room. Bosie declares bitterly that she “hated Raymond,” then proceeds to confess that his son’s madness is mirrored in himself. The silence from above is not indifference; it is the moral weather of the play.

Approached from Olive’s own poetry, this is arresting. Her last collection, The Inn of Dreams (1911), moves by titles and by temper toward inward rooms and angelic custody—The Kingdom of Heaven, The Prisoner of God, The Vision. Kilroy gives her something like the afterlife her poems imagined: not a reprieve from suffering, but a purification of it. In the radio play, Raymond’s voice—by turns playful, wounded, and grand—is allowed to become its own music. “Mother. Mother. Mother.” The cry that ends a scene does not insist on pathology; it announces a deep human need that the play refuses to mock.

By the last movement, the family is transposed from scandal to myth—not myth as falsehood but as distilled meaning. Bosie, who once loved beauty too violently, finds the more difficult beauty of truth. Olive, too easily dismissed as a muse or an alibi, becomes the still centre. Raymond, for so long so silent, receives the last word.

VI. Literature and the Resolution of Tension

All literature, I sometimes think, wants to resolve tension—tragically, comically, or by the quieter route of recognition. Aristotle called that catharsis. Christianity says truth will make you free. Kilroy lets those statements meet. In the prelude, Constance Wilde confronts the truth of a father; in the monologue, Bosie confronts the truth of himself; in the radio coda, Raymond confronts the truth of the world. The circle of compassion widens with each act. The instrument is speech; the setting is a garden.

What is redeemed? Not reputation; not consequence. What is redeemed is the possibility of pity. The radio play closes with an epilogue in which Lucia’s voice speaks gratitude—a letter to Galway—where once we heard only anger. That is not a miracle; it is an altered key.

VII. Conclusion – Through the Garden Gate

“Most of what I’ve been saying… a pack of lies!” Bosie says, and then he names the darkness as his own. The rest follows almost gently. Eileen bears Raymond to the door; Bosie steps after them. Years later, in the walled garden of Northampton, Raymond and Lucia imagine a train and hear a hymn. Between those two sounds—the shuffling on the stairs and the  Bach chorale—lies the modest miracle of Kilroy’s theatre: speech attended to, sorrow respected, and the permission to finish on a human note.

Kilroy achieves what biography alone cannot: he converts history into myth without falsifying it. His plays do not excuse the Douglases; they understand them. They show how beauty can outlast disgrace, how faith can survive irony—how a certain garden can be made for the weary. In that sense, the garden is Olive Custance’s afterlife, and the open doorway through which Bosie and Raymond pass is the threshold of literature itself—that mysterious gate through which human failure, in the end, gives way to forgiveness.