The world's worst [novelist], ever. An [Ulster]woman who lived from 1860 to 1939, she wrote three [novel]s, one incomplete, and several volumes of [poetry]. The poetry [stink]s and is [hilarious], but it's not as bad as that of [William McGonagall], and not a patch on her novels.

In 1897 her husband privately paid for [Irene Iddesleigh] to be published; this was followed by [Delina Delaney] in 1898. The third, [Helen Huddleson], was released [posthumous]ly. But her first novel made her famous and her second made her a [cult], a cult she was unaware of.

She came to the world's attention when [Barry Pain], a humorous [critic], discovered and reviewed [Irene Iddesleigh] in February 1898. He called it the [Book of the Century]. She hated critics. Here are some things she said about critics:

[bastard] [donkey]-headed [mite]s
clay-[crab]s of [corruption]
denunciating [Arab]s
[evil-minded] snapshots of [spleen]
[talent]-wipers of a [worm]y order

I open my book of selections ([Thine in Storm and Calm], edited by [Frank Ormsby]) literally at random, and fasten on the first paragraph I see. That'll do nicely.

"Can it be that your attention has ever been, or is still, attracted by another, who, by some [artifice] or other, had the [audacity] to steal your [desire] for me and hide it beneath his [pillage]d [pillow] of [poverty], there to conceal it until demanded with my [ransom]?

"Speak! [Irene]! [Wife]! Woman! Do not sit in silence and allow the [blood] that now [boil]s in my veins to [ooze] through cavities of [unrestrained] [passion] and trickle down to [drench] me with its crimson hue!

I was going to start writing some textual [criticism] just now, some mildly amusing [barb]s at her style, but do I really need to? Let's simply quote from the next novel. She conveys the flavour far better than I could.

A [panic] swept over the entire [court], whilst [Delina] fell heavily against the front of the [dock].

A laugh of [devilish] [triumph] lit up the features of [Madam-de-Maine].

[Lord Gifford] groaned aloud.

Ladies became [hysterical], some [faint]ing, others weeping [copious]ly, and nothing was heard save [sob]bing and [wail]ing. One young girl named [Fanny Fowler], who had been a companion of Delina's at school, died from [shock] as the words fell from the clerk's lips.

The sight was one never, never to be forgotten. Mothers [wring]ing their hands in deep and [groan]ing agony; ladies supported in the arms of their husbands; and girls screaming because their parents could not be quieted.

A deep hush prevailed as the [judge] pronounced the sentence.

"Delina Delaney, you have been found [guilty] of this [horrible] crime by a jury of your own countrymen, and it is piteous to see such a handsome young girl sharing part of her bright years in a [convict] cell. You were set apart to attend to the wants of Lord Gifford, and [devote] your untiring energy to his comfort. Being [tempt]ed through some motive or other to administer to him certain deadly [poison]s, you must now suffer the consequence."

This opening the book at random is quite sufficient. The first words from Helen Huddleson my eyes light on will do for us here.

[Lord Raspberry] breathed the [oxygen] of [artifice], sniffed the smoke of [suspicion], exhaled the acid of [anxiety] as he stood resolving his scheme.

"Action -- action -- I must act now," he murmured in breathless haste, then drawing from his vest pocket a [pen-knife], opened the window as he had so often done before.

On entering he found himself confronted in his [pyjamas] by [Sir Peter Plum], a [mourning] light exhibiting itself issuing from the next room.

Instantly Lord Raspberry struck Sir Peter who [stagger]ed and fell moaning on the softly carpeted floor.

Amanda hated critics. She hated [lawyer]s, [Roman Catholic]s, [American]s, anyone she suspected was [taking the mickey], editors, people of [bad breeding]... but she reeeally 'ated the critics. A lot. After Barry Pain's [review], her next book contained an eight-thousand-word preface [ironic]ally praising his perception to the skies. After his death in 1928 she crowed about how little money he had left. When [D.B. Wyndham Lewis] cautiously attempted to review her in 1926 while almost keeping a straight face, she came back with a ten-thousand-word paragraph-by-[paragraph] demolition of his review, calling him [St Scandalbags], a criticising [crowdrop], not what you'd call a 'larned feller', a Brain-buster, creamiest genius-beetler, the most [hellish] of a hell-deserving [calumniator], wonderful 'nerve-disturber', [coxcomb|cox-comb], 'de feller sidin' wid'' Barry, low [vulgar] mind, low [dirty dog], genius-scather, ...

Look, it just goes on and on. That's just in the first three pages. And that's just the things she calls the [reviewer]. The newspaper it appeared in is "that [celestial]-like-celebrated-talent-[tarnish]er"; his writing tools and techniques are an [exhaustive] dose of [jalap] and [spite], [threadbare] knowledge, [blackguardly] remarks, outbursts of [slum] slang, frothing with [bawdy] beads of [banter], a tissue of [contemptible] untruths, the razor of [ridicule], the sword of [sarcasm], ...

I'll stop there, about half way down page 2. Time for a bit of poetry.

[EPITAPH] ON LARGEBONES - THE LAWYER

Beneath me here in [stink]ing clumps
Lies Lawyer [Largebones], all in lumps;
A [rotten] mass of clockholed clay,
Which grows more honeycombed every day.
See how the [rat]s have scratched his face?
Now so unlike the human race;
I very much regret I can't
Assist them in their eager 'bent'.

She was born Anna Margaret McKittrick in [Drumaness], County [Down], on 8 December 1860, married [Andrew Ross], an inoffensive [stationmaster]. From this and her belief that "I afford pleasure and give [satisfaction] to the million and one who continually [thirst] for aught that drops from my pen", and that "surely there must be something strangely [great] about my Works when they create such a [furore] among the World's noblest and best down to the '[Hogwash]ing [Hooligan]s whose sole foundation is based upon [spleen]", she constructed the tale that her full name was Amanda Malvina Fitzalan Anna Margaret McClelland McKittrick Ros, and she happened to be descended from King [Sitric] of Denmark.

Amanda Ros societies were formed among the [fashionable] set in [London], while she stayed in her little village posting out her books, her [blessing]s, or her [denunciation]s. Among her [admirer]s were [Aldous Huxley], [Anthony Powell], [Siegfried Sassoon], [Mark Twain], [James Agate], Sir [Osbert Sitwell], ... at [Oxford], the [Inklings] would hold contests to determine who could read Ros' work aloud the longest without laughing. Members included [J.R.R. Tolkien] and [C.S. Lewis].

Huxley wrote an [essay] about her, [Euphues Redivivus]; but it's mainly big chunks of her text. You do that when you write about Amanda.

Can you buy her novels? No. Why haven't these gems been reissued? For more selections from her works, and the Huxley essay, and other links about bad writing, see:

[http://www.oddbooks.co.uk/amanda/]

Amanda McKittrick Ros (person)