My goodness, but he does talk a lot of rubbish. The four essays in here, all dealing with Art in some fashion (and I use the capital letter deliberately, seeing as dear old Oscar gives the impression of utter disdain for anything else) are mildly clever but mostly interminable.

Reading them, I was struck mostly by the sense of incipient dread that any hostess must have felt when Oscar turned up for a dinner party. If she were lucky, she'd get the Wilde who wrote The Importance of Being Ernest, and he would make terribly witty, terribly well-constructed observations and be a delight to the whole table. If she were very unlucky, she'd get the Oscar of Intentions, a gaseous windbag pontificating at endless length about the proper understanding of Art until people drowned themselves in the soup, just to get it to stop.