I recently slogged through De Profundis, a long angry letter with moments of high brilliance interspersed with the most painstakingly tedious delineations of his ill treatment at the hands young Douglas and his father. With obviously way too much time on his hands, he left precious few grievances unuttered. How painful it is, as a reader, to witness the exhaustion of his massive creative spirit as it pours into this seemingly endless diatribe. Never seen anything like it. Glad I read it. Can't picture the circumstances in which I might ever want to read it again. But something about it is magnetic and someday I probably will.