THE CHILDREN OF READING GAOL: A Letter from Oscar Wilde, 1897

A boy used to come and play in these streets. Now he is alone. Held by stone walls of a solitary cell. Gray slits of life escape through bars immobilizing him with shadowy splints. He sits on the floor wet with cold fear. His face a white wedge of terror like a hunted animal. He receives bread and water. In burned out sockets there is wrath. He has been crying all day. He cannot understand prison. He cannot realize what society is. Darkness covers him with dreams of death.