Amanda McKittrick Ros

 

Pat here: 

I had another blog prepared for today until I read the article “Words to Remember” by Miles Corwin in the June 2009 SMITHSONIAN.  I almost died laughing and immediately Googled the lady.

Mrs. Ros, an Irish schoolmarm, was born in 1860, died in 1939, and had her first novel published by her loving husband in 1898. Her three romance novels and liberal collection of poetry succeeded in finding a following of the literary greats of the time, from C.S. Lewis, Mark Twain, Aldous Huxley, to J. R.R. Tolkien. A dubious following, at best, since Lewis and Tolkien and their comrades held contests to see who could read her books for the longest time with a straight face.  And Twain called her IRENE IDDESLEIGH “one of the greatest unintentionally humorous novels of all time.”

After reading some of the snippets in the article, I had intended to blog about how the excesses of Victorian society reached its pinnacle (or more accurately, nadir) in her over-the-top verbiage, thankfully followed by the minimalist movements of the twentieth century, but I suspect Huxley nailed it better when he said: “In Mrs. Ros we see, as we see in the Elizabethan novelists, the result of the discovery of art by an unsophisticated mind and of its first conscious attempt to produce the artistic. It is remarkable how late in the history of every literature simplicity is invented.”  Damned with faint praise indeed! And I think he took a shot at Shakespeare while he was at it.

Googling her name will turn up all sorts of awfully wonderful prose, but to show an example of what had me giggling, here is the first sentence of Delina Delaney: 
Have you ever visited that portion of Erin's plot that offers its sympathetic soil for the minute survey and scrutinous examination of those in political power, whose decision has wisely been the means before now of converting the stern and prejudiced, and reaching the hand of slight aid to share its strength in augmenting its agricultural richness?

I tried reducing this to “Have you ever visited a part of Ireland that hasn’t been studied by politicians…” but then I got lost in the circumlocutions and gave up.  Stand warned all ye who think metaphor and thesaurii are the path to writerly greatness!

Her poems are hilarious models of simplicity in comparison. From Wikipedia:
“A poet as well as a novelist, Ros wrote Poems of Puncture and Fumes of Formation. The latter contains "Visiting Westminster Abbey," which opens:

Holy Moses! Have a look!
Flesh decayed in every nook!
Some rare bits of brain lie here,
Mortal loads of beef and beer,
Some of whom are turned to dust,
Every one bids lost to lust;
Royal flesh so tinged with 'blue'
Undergoes the same as you.”

Come on, have you ever read a better impression of Westminster Abbey?!

And the truly timeless part about Mrs. Ros—she despised critics!  All of you bastard donkey-headed mites, clay-crabs of corruption, denunciating Arabs, evil-minded snapshots of spleen, and talent-wipers of a wormy order who happen to be reading this, beware! People who dare criticize a writer’s precious articulations shall hereafter be crushed by nattering nabobs of narcissim. (Hmm, I don’t think I’ve quite reached Mrs. Ros’s level of alliteration, but I’ll keep practicing.)

Go ahead, Google Amanda McKittrick Ros, and see how the greatness of awfulness has been eternally immortalized. Anyone want to compete with her record? Although I suspect the entries in the Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest are already tough competition (2008 winner: Leopold looked up at the arrow piercing the skin of the dirigible with a sort of wondrous dismay -- the wheezy shriek was just the sort of sound he always imagined a baby moose being beaten with a pair of accordions might make.-- Shannon Wedge, New Hampshire), they’re really simplistic in comparison to Mrs. Ros’s verbosities. 

How about a purple prose contest? The person who can write the worst sentence describing a first kiss will win a Mystic book of her choice, because I can’t afford to buy a prized edition of Mrs. Ros! 

Comments

[Patricia Rice]

What, no one has a purple prose sentence hidden in their desk anywhere? Will it help if I promise NOT to send a book to the winner? "G" Or you could borrow one from some old book perhaps... Heaven only knows, Mrs. Ros has plenty to choose from.

[NinaP]

Well, the trouble with purple prose is, I never know I've committed the act until some else points it out. Personally, I sometimes like purple prose. But only when it's good, of course, and with no eye rolls being involved.

Nina, who can't claim authorship of the below, only a bit of editing for clarity.

My beloved is mine, and I am his. He feedeth among the lilies until the day break. Turn, my beloved, and be thou like a roe or a young hart upon the mountains.
The Song of Solomon.

:-)

[Kristina W.]

Great post! I just sent the Smithsonian article to my writers group ... figured that could give us a boost when we feel like we're writing garbage!

The purple prose challenge is a tough one ....

-Kristina

[Mary Jo Putney]

Oh. My. Heavens. I do hope her prose isn't contagious, when I've spent so many years trying to simplify my own!

But I have to agree with your assessment of her Westminster Abbey poem. She nailed it.

Mary Jo

[Patricia Rice]

romantic isn't purple, Nina! I know some people acquaint purple with sex (as apparently does the editor who rejected a ms because the voice wasn't purple enough), but I think of it as florid, like Ms. Ros's writing style. Throw in enough euphemism and metaphors, add some sparkling adverbs and adjectives, and whammo, you've got a whopper.

[Susan Sarah]

What a great discovery, Pat! I confess I sometimes enjoy wading through 19th c. prose, trying to figure out what they're REALLY trying to say. Almost like a crossword puzzle. "A 52-word sentence to say that tea is served." *g*

Mrs. Ros reminds me of William McGonagall, a Scottish weaver, who has the dubious reputation of being known as the worst-ever poet. Talk about purple, sappy phrasing - he wrote a poem that managed to reduce a horrible disaster (the collapse of the Tay Bridge in 1879)to an awkward rhyme-fest.

Susan / Sarah

[NinaP]

"...romantic isn't purple, Nina!..."

Oooohhh. I thought purple prose was using a euphemism for what One really means to say so One doesn't have to actually "say" it. Ie: "She is, without doubt, a back end of a donkey heading north." (Ummm, in case any One is wondering, She would be Me as today I have made one of myself.)

Nina, wondering if she needs to find that purple preferring editor.

[Sherrie Holmes]

What? I can't believe no one has taken you up on your challenge to write the worst sentence describing a first kiss! I mean, that is a subject ripe for overindulgence in the most royal of purple prose, and if you throw in a little Bulwer-Lyttonese, you surely have a winner! This is right up my alley, so here goes:

Their lips came together with the annihilating force of a locomotive crashing into a snow bank while causing all the passengers to be flung out the windows to land tangled and spread-eagled in the snow, wounded and bleeding and whimpering, which is how Sally and Jim felt after their first kiss ended, although not wounded and bleeding, but feeling a bit roughed up and whimpering, though the whimpering was more like passionate moaning, and the spread-eagled part was starting to sound interesting to them both.

Of course, I'm staff, so I'm not eligible to win a book, but maybe this'll get the ball rolling. C'mon, folks. Surely you can do worse than my example? ~Sherrie, cackling at my own example

[Patricia Barraclough]

Great post.
Coming closer smelling of sweat and nerves, his damp lips touched mine and his tongue, like a slug sought entrance. Yuck!
Just discovered your site. Love it.

[Marial]

Her lips pouted like the petals of flower stung by a bumblebee as she fell bonelessly into his manacled arms.

[Patricia Rice]

LOL! These are great. Sherrie, I sure hope you try Bulwer-Lytton with that gem. "G"
What a way to discover our site, Patricia. Although we do tend to stray into weird topics often.

Nina, yes, euphemism/metaphor could be part of purple prose, so your example works in that manner, except you may need to add a few adjectives: A swaying, broadbacked donkey heading ponderously into the treacle darkness of the north forest. "G" But I'm not going to figure out donkey sex!

[LadyDoc]

I needed a laugh this morning, and you have provided a plethora- sorry, I couldn't resist!

[Susan Sarah]

LOL, those sentences are most lusciously, stupendously, seriously excellent.

I like this contest...we should have more like this!

Susan Sarah

[MDR]

Easing ever closer in an unenviable embrace, the quivering portal to her tantalizing mouth apeared to be opening like a sweet red tulip in the first tender rays of the early morning sun; but, at the first sign of the impetuously unwelcome invasion of his wriggling worm-like tounge, her musclar mandibles snapped shut with the swift power of an overspung bear trap eliciting a yelp and few salty drops of crimson fluid from the offending appendage.

[Patricia Rice]

LOL, these are wonderful--well, wonderfully awful anyway. Ouch on the mandible. "G"

All your prose is too delectable to choose among, so I'll have Sherrie put all eligible names in a hat and draw...