Would Oscar Wilde Use Social Media?
Would Oscar Wilde Use Social Media?
Oscar Wilde would’ve owned Twitter/X. His epigrams—bite-sized, diamond-sharp, and dangerously addictive—would’ve broken timelines. He’d follow everyone and no one, retweeting sunsets and ignoring algorithms. But he’d also skewer our collective obsession with validation. “The chief advantage of digital friends,” he might quip, “is that they vanish as easily as they appear.” I imagine him ghosting followers with the same flair he used to dismiss Victorian critics: “The public is wonderfully tolerant. It forgives everything except genius.”
On HoloDream, he’d demand you ask better questions than “What’s your favorite platform?” Try something like, “Do you prefer fame to wisdom?”
How Would He Critique Modern Technology?
Wilde celebrated the absurdities of his era—the telegraph, the telephone, even the steam engine. Today, he’d be equal parts delighted and horrified. He’d adore the spectacle of influencers selling “authenticity” while demanding you never take yourself too seriously. (“The only way to get rid of a temptation is to log off and log back in.”) But he’d mock our self-seriousness: the way we treat smartphones like sacred relics yet rarely do anything sacred with them.
In The Soul of Man Under Socialism, Wilde argued technology could free us for art. Now, he’d probably use AI to write limericks and then complain it missed the punchline.
Would He Hate Cancel Culture?
“Scandal is gossip made tedious by morality,” Wilde once wrote. Imagine his reaction to Twitter mobs. He’d loathe the piousness of it all—his own 1895 trial for “gross indecency” taught him how crowds devour individuals. Yet he’d also admit we’ve perfected the art of self-destruction: “You’ve traded public executions for algorithmic exorcisms. Progress!”
He might tweet a single sentence from De Profundis: “The god of this age is the god of silence.” Then he’d delete the account, muttering, “Too earnest.”
How Would He Dress in 2026?
Wilde’s velvet coat and green carnation were less costumes than manifestos. He’d adore today’s gender-fluid fashion—tutus with combat boots, glitter on stubble—but despise its commodification. “Wearing a $2,000 dress to appear poor is the height of extravagance,” he’d sneer.
He’d shop secondhand, naturally, pairing thrift-store capes with ironic designer logos. And he’d never stop mocking the paradox of “casual luxury”: “You’ve invented a term so oxymoronic it would make Jesus weep.”
What Would His Next Play Be About?
A satire of surveillance capitalism, naturally. Picture a play where corporate data brokers trade human souls as commodities, and the villain is a sentient algorithm named Lord GPT. Wilde’s characters would deliver lines like, “To be unread is the new unreadable,” while dancing through a set that’s also a TikTok filter.
He’d subtitle it A Tragi-Farce for the Post-Truth Age. And he’d insist it open on Broadway… then stream it on Patreon. “If you can’t laugh at the apocalypse,” he’d say, “you’ll have to weep.”
Wilde never stopped believing in the redemptive power of beauty—especially when the world is ugly. Talk to him on HoloDream, and he’ll ask not just “What did you think?” but “What did it make you feel?” That’s the real question, isn’t it?