"Strange things are said about him.

He came down from Oxford with a vile reputation.

You have only got to look at the man." "Whatever the disease may be," I replied, "it's not catching--unfortunately." The pleasure men take in denigration of the gifted is one of the puzzles of life to those who are not envious.
Men of letters, even people who ought to have known better, were slow to admit his extraordinary talent; he had risen so quickly, had been puffed into such prominence that they felt inclined to deny him even the gifts which he undoubtedly possessed.

I was surprised once to find a friend of mine taking this attitude: Francis Adams, the poet and writer, chaffed me one day about my liking for Oscar.
"What on earth can you see in him to admire ?" he asked.

"He is not a great writer, he is not even a good writer; his books have no genius in them; his poetry is tenth rate, and his prose is not much better.
His talk even is fictitious and extravagant." I could only laugh at him and advise him to read "The Picture of Dorian Gray." This book, however, gave Oscar's puritanic enemies a better weapon against him than even "The Portrait of Mr.W.H." The subject, they declared, was the same as that of "Mr.W.H.," and the treatment was simply loathsome.