I’m writing today, October 14th 2025, to share an excerpt from one of my favorite tales written by Oscar Wilde.

Each evening, a young fisherman casts his nets into the sea, living simply on the fruits of his catch.

One day, he draws from the depths a creature of wondrous beauty, a mermaid.

Spellbound, he gazes at her in silence. But the mermaid, trapped in the net, weeps and begs the fisherman to set her free, promising to sing for him the songs of the sea.

Moved by her voice and her beauty, the fisherman releases her.

Grateful, the mermaid sings to him of the marvels of the underwater world and every evening, he returns to the shore to listen to her. Little by little, he falls hopelessly in love with her, and in time, she comes to love him too.

But their love is impossible, she cannot love a man as long as he possesses a human soul.

She tells him that if he gives up his soul, they can finally be united, and live together in the depths.

THE MERMAID

The Mermaid shook her head. “Thou hast a human soul” she answered. “If only thou wouldst send away thy soul, then could I love thee.” And the young Fisherman said to himself: “Of what use is my soul to me? I cannot see it. I may not touch it. I do not know it. Surely I will send it away from me, and much gladness shall be mine.” And a cry of joy broke from his lips, and standing up in the painted boat, he held out his arms to the Mermaid. “I will send my soul away,” he cried, “and thou shalt be my bride, and I will be thy bridegroom, and in the depth of the sea we will dwell together, and all that thou hast sung of thou shalt show me, and all that thou desirest I will do, nor shall our lives be divided.”

And the little Mermaid laughed for pleasure, and hid her face in her hands.

“But how shall I send my soul from me?” cried the young Fisherman. “Tell me how I may do it, and lo! it shall be done.”

“Alas! I know not,” said the little Mermaid: “the Sea-folk have no souls.” And she sank down into the deep, looking wistfully at him.

THE PRIEST

Now early on the next morning, before the sun was the span of a man's hand above the hill, the young Fisherman went to the house of the Priest and knocked three times at the door.

The novice looked out through the wicket, and when he saw who it was, he drew back the latch and said to him: “Enter.”

And the young Fisherman passed in, and knelt down on the sweet-smelling rushes of the floor, and cried to the Priest who was reading out of the Holy Book and said to him: “Father, I am in love with one of the Sea-folk, and my soul hindereth me from having my desire. Tell me how I can send my soul away from me, for in truth I have no need of it.

Of what value is my soul to me? I cannot see it. I may not touch it. I do not know it.”

And the Priest beat his breast, and answered:

“Alack, alack, thou art mad, or hast eaten of some poisonous herb, for the soul is the noblest part of man, and was given to us by God that we should nobly use it. There is no thing more precious than a human soul, nor any earthly thing that can be weighed with it. It is worth all the gold that is in the world, and is more precious than the rubies of the kings. Therefore, my son, think not any more of this matter, for it is a sin that may not be forgiven.

And as for the Sea-folk, they are lost, and they who would traffic with them are lost also. They are as the beasts of the field that know not good from evil, and for them the Lord has not died.” The young Fisherman's eyes filled with tears when he heard the bitter words of the Priest, and he rose up from his knees and said to him: “Father, the Fauns live in the forest and are glad, and on the rocks sit the Mermen with their harps of red gold.

Let me be as they are, I beseech thee, for their days are as the days of flowers. And as for my soul, what doth my soul profit me, if it stand between me and the thing that I love?”

“The love of the body is vile,” cried the Priest, knitting his brows, “and vile and evil are the pagan things God suffers to wander through his world.

Accursed be the Fauns of the woodland, and accursed be the singers of the sea! I have heard them at night-time, and they have sought to lure me from my beads. They tap at the window, and laugh. They whisper into my ears the tale of their perilous joys.

They tempt me with temptations, and when I would pray they make mouths at me. They are lost, I tell thee, they are lost. For them there is no heaven nor hell, and in neither shall they praise God's name.”

“Father,” cried the young Fisherman, “thou knowest not what thou sayest. Once in my net I snared the daughter of a King. She is fairer than the morning star and whiter than the moon. For her body I would give my soul, and for her love I would surrender heaven. Tell me what I ask of thee, and let me go in peace.”

The Fisherman and his soul by Oscar Wilde, is one of the most beautiful tale I’ve ever read about love and devotion. That strange, devouring force can slowly consume a soul from within, driving it to madness. It can lead one to abandon what is most precious, what is most alive at the very core of their being. That same strange, devouring feeling cages a person within their own flesh and robs them of their inner light. Each time someone truly loves, each time they fall, utterly, in love, a part of them is sold, sacrificed, dissolved in love, in devotion. 

This tale leads me to believe that it might be wiser to seek instead a reason for being, rather than a being to be our reason. To the necessity of finding a devotion not rooted in another person, because people are unpredictable, unstable, impossible to anchor. It leads me to believe that this same longing for meaning, which is so often projected onto others, might be better placed in devotion to art or an inner activity. In doing so, we no longer depend on an external brilliance from the world; we become the brilliance itself, the emotion, the passion, the source of our own reason for being. It becomes self-generating and yet, it is a paradox of our nature that only in love do we awaken to the desire to transcend ourselves. In only loving another, we glimpse the possibility of becoming more than what we are, and so we offer the best of our being. It is then that inspiration stirs, driven, not by ambition, but by the devouring compulsion to feel more fully. To see oneself reflected and redefined through the eyes of another and thus, giving a sense to our existence. Otherwise, what is the purpose of all this? What is the point of creation, if it cannot be seen, admired by the one we’re in love with?