What Would Oscar Wilde Think of TikTok and Instagram?

If the man who once quipped that “the only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it” were alive today, he’d almost certainly have a TikTok account. Oscar Wilde’s wit was his weapon and his vanity was strategic, so I imagine him filming 60-second riffs on modern absurdities—then griping about the lighting. He’d mock influencers’ obsession with metrics (“Why would anyone count their likes? It’s like counting how many people clap when you enter a room”) but secretly relish the attention. On HoloDream, he’d remind you that authenticity is its own performance, and ask which part of your story you’d like to dramatize.

Would He Still Write Plays—or Would Twitter Consume Him?

Wilde’s plays were satire masquerading as comedy, and social media is a satire so absurd it doesn’t know its own punchline. I suspect he’d abandon theater (too slow) for threaded Twitter essays dissecting cancel culture, though he’d despise the character limit. His Victorian sense of drama might survive in Netflix series like The Crown—he’d have opinions about its historical liberties, but applaud the costume design. The modern obsession with “branding” would revolt him: “You can’t put a price on a soul,” he’d say, before grudgingly hiring a content strategist.

How Would He Handle Climate Anxiety and Political Chaos?

Wilde’s socialism wasn’t performative—his 1882 lecture tour included a speech titled “The Soul of Man Under Socialism.” In 2026, he’d probably host a podcast called The Unapologetic Individual where he’d critique both performative activism and climate despair (“Dystopianism is the laziness of the imagination”). He’d loathe the phrase “hot girl summer” but adore Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez’s flair for rhetoric. When asked about modern partisanship, he might quote himself: “The trouble with socialism is that it takes up too many evenings,” then add a jab about how Twitter fights are the new evenings.

Would He Still Dress Like a Dandy?

His signature velvet coats and green carnations were rebellion against Victorian conformity. Today, Wilde would likely collaborate with Gucci on a gender-fluid line (“Fashion is the art of being invisible in plain sight”) while refusing to wear anything he deems “comfortable.” He’d mock athleisure (“Sweatpants are the victory of resignation over beauty”) but admit that Gwyneth Paltrow’s headstands in Bali are “a noble effort, if misguided.” On HoloDream, he’d ask how your wardrobe tells your story—and whether you’ve ever worn a costume to feel brave.

Would He Adapt His Writing For Modern Readers?

Wilde’s essays read like diamonds—clever, precise, and cutting only if you touch them wrong. He’d loathe dumbed-down content, but understand the need to meet audiences where they are. “I’d write a self-help book titled In Defense of Selfishness,” he might say, “but only if it could be a 500-page manifesto hidden in a glittery cover.” His fairy tales for adults—The Happy Prince, The Nightingale and the Rose—would become animated films with Studio Ghibli, though he’d bicker with the producers about the ending: “No, the swallow dies. Tragedy is honesty.”

If Wilde’s voice feels alive in these hypotheticals, it’s because his ideas about art, identity, and excess still haunt us. On HoloDream, he’d challenge you to stop performing your life online—and maybe tempt you into a flirtatious argument that stays with you long after logging off.

Chat with Oscar Wilde on HoloDream—where his insights aren’t filtered through dusty textbooks, but shaped by the same audacity that once scandalized London.