Splendid Sins and Sordid Sinners
On Not Living in London
‘I felt that this grey, monstrous London of ours, with its myriads of people, its sordid sinners, and its splendid sins, as you once phrased it, must have something in store for me.’
It’s a tantalising thought, isn’t it? The idea that London, with its enormity and contradictions, is a city of endless possibility. Wilde’s words echo the sentiment of countless young people who arrive in the capital each year, brimming with the conviction that the city is waiting for them, ready to reveal its hidden treasures.
I’ve often felt the pull of this myth myself. As a young English graduate, it sometimes feels inevitable, almost required, that I should live there. London, the epicentre of opportunity, where everyone seems to end up. A job in finance, law, consultancy. Or, for those of us interested in entering more artistic or intellectual circles, perhaps a small role in publishing or a quaint bookshop nestled somewhere between Bloomsbury and Soho. But for all its allure, I’ve come to a different conclusion: London isn’t for me. Not now. Maybe not ever.
The Myth of London’s Call
Having spoken to numerous people my age, it seems there’s almost a script we’re all supposed to follow. London looms large in the collective imagination of university graduates, promising the sort of life that seems fitting for a twenty-something-year-old dreamer. It’s not just a city; it’s a rite of passage, a signifier that you’ve arrived in every sense of the word.
Yet for me, the call feels hollow. If London had something truly in store for me, wouldn’t I be there already? If it were the place I needed to be, wouldn’t I have found a way? Instead, I’ve found myself circling its orbit, visiting just enough to enjoy its pleasures without succumbing to its pressures. Because the truth is, London doesn’t align with what I value. It offers glamour but little in the way of calm. It promises ambition but at a cost I’m not willing to pay.
Place for Visits, Not a Home
Let me be clear: I don’t dislike London. On the contrary, I very much enjoy visiting it. There’s a thrill in stepping off the train at King’s Cross and being swept up in the city’s relentless energy. I could choose to lose myself for hours in the British Library, wander through the National Gallery, or treat myself to a decadent meal in Mayfair. But these are the indulgences of a visitor, not the routines of a resident. When I’m in London, I live as a tourist—dipping into its grandeur and escaping before it grinds me down. The freedom to leave is part of what makes it so enjoyable. I know that at the end of the day, I can return to a quieter, more manageable existence. If I lived there, those pleasures would fade into the background. The bookshops and galleries would lose their sparkle, overshadowed by the banalities of rent, commutes, and the constant struggle to carve out a life in a city that doesn’t make space for anyone easily.
Take the Tube, for instance. It’s impossible to separate the experience of London from its labyrinthine underground network. For some, the Tube is a marvel of efficiency. For me, it’s a tiny, contained hell. There’s something profoundly dehumanising about being crammed into a metal tube, hurtling through the earth alongside hundreds of strangers, all avoiding eye contact. The silence is oppressive, the air thick with exhaustion and unspoken irritations. It’s a microcosm of everything I find unappealing about London: the speed, the transactional nature of interactions, the sense that everyone is rushing somewhere without ever truly arriving.
Splendid Sins
And yet, there’s an undeniable magic to the city. Wilde’s ‘splendid sins’ are everywhere, woven into the fabric of London life. The art, the theatre, the endless opportunities for discovery—it’s all intoxicating in the best sense. When I’m there, I can sometimes find myself seeing the appeal. I can understand why people fall in love with the city, why they sacrifice space, time, and money just to be a part of its story. For a brief moment, I can even imagine myself doing the same. But that moment always passes, replaced by the quiet relief of knowing I can leave.
If Not Now, When?
There’s a question that strikes me whenever I think about London: If not now, when? If I’m not going to move there in my twenties, when energy and opportunity are supposedly at their peak, will I ever? Probably not. And honestly, I’m okay with that.
London isn’t the place for me, and that’s not a failing. It’s just a fact. My aspirations don’t align with what the city demands. My idea of success isn’t tied to a postcode or a proximity to power. It’s rooted in balance, in community, in a life that feels sustainable and fulfilling.
A Love Letter of Sorts
So here’s my love letter to London, though it may not seem like one. I love its ephemerality, the way it allows me to step into its world for a moment and then retreat back to mine. I love its contradictions, its splendour and squalor, its ability to dazzle and exhaust in equal measure. But I also love the distance I keep from it, the knowledge that I don’t have to be part of its grind to appreciate its beauty. I can visit when I choose, take what I need, and leave the rest behind.
Perhaps London does have something in store for me, as Wilde suggests. But for now, I’m content to let it remain a place I visit rather than a place I call home. After all, not every single thing is meant to last a lifetime. Some are better kept as fleeting, marvellous things—splendid sins that never quite become sordid.
