In praise of Amanda McKittrick Ros – the fake Ulster aristocrat crowned ‘worst writer in history’

And she achieved it... after a fashion.

Her name, Amanda McKittrick Ros, is relatively little-known today.

But back in her heyday she attracted the attention of some of the world’s most celebrated authors – albeit for completely the wrong reasons.

The book which launched her career was ‘Irene Iddesleigh’, and this year is the 125th anniversary of its publication.

It set Ros on the path to becoming renowned in the English-speaking world as arguably the worst writer of all time.

(Decide for yourself; a full chapter is included at the bottom of this story.)

Now the chief librarian of National Museums NI has said that rather than being a mere object of ridicule, Ros had qualities which authors of today would do well to emulate.

“I would say she ought to be an inspiration especially in these days of self–publishing,” said Roger Dixon.

“Her absolute belief in her own abilities, the originality of her prose style and her complete contempt for the views of her many critics should be an example to all aspiring writers.”

‘CLAY CRABS OF CORRUPTION’:

Born in Drumaness, Co Down, she worked as a teacher at Millbrook National School in Larne, and married railwayman from the town called Andrew Ross; it was he who funded the publication of ‘Irene Iddesleigh’.

Amanda’s birth name was Anna Margaret McKittrick.

It’s been widely asserted – most recently by author Karl Shaw – that she dropped the last ‘S’ from her name because she thought it gave her an aristocratic air, implying that she was part of the noble de Ros clan of Co Down (she wasn’t).

Many accounts of her life describe how fellow Ulster writer CS Lewis would meet with Mark Twain and Aldous Huxley, and compete with one another to see how much of her work they could read before bursting into laughter.

Ros dismissed her critics as “clay crabs of corruption”, and believed her work “will be talked about at the end of a thousand years”.

As to whether she deserves greater recognition, Mr Dixon said: “In regard to commemorating her, I spoke with Maud Hamill of the Ulster History circle and suggested they put up a blue plaque to her and I believe they will act on my recommendation.”

‘SHE IS NOT AS BAD AS DAN BROWN’:

The exact date in 1897 when her debut novel hit the presses is unknown, but the fact a signed copy exists dated June means it was at some point in the first half of the year.

It is a novel about... well, it’s hard to say.

That’s because Ros’ writing style makes each page a puzzle, with every sentence like a kind of Rubik’s Cube that needs to be rolled and twisted around in the brain to try and resolve it.

Here is a sample sentence plucked from the middle of the novel:

“What must have been the breathless surprise of Lady Dilworth chiefly, and those present also, who, only the evening previous, had been pouring such praises over the magnificent duchesse satin gown, which eligible Parisian dressmakers pronounced their chief production of the season, when Irene appeared arrayed in an Irish poplin of the darkest visible shade of green, without either train or flower of distinction, not even a speck of ribbon or border of lace, and no ornament only the valued necklet which graced her pearly throat when first Sir John was tempted with her enhancing beauty to bestow upon her his choice collection of love’s purest fragrance, which should cast the sweetest scent of mutual relationship throughout the dazzling apartments of the mansion she was about to grace.”

That’s a single sentence of 128 words, punctuated with 10 commas, conveying that she was wearing a green dress, much plainer than the night before.

In some respects she is like the prose version of William Topaz McGonagall, the notoriously dire Scottish poet who also exhibited no self-awareness or sense of humour when it came to his own work (look up ‘The Tay Bridge Disaster’ for example).

Nevertheless, Mr Dixon rejects the idea that her work is the nadir of the English language.

“I was never convinced that Amanda was the worst novelist ever,” Mr Dixon said.

“Her style was so exuberant and individual that it makes it very difficult to compare to others, and it has to be said that her style certainly got her noticed.

“What other minor fiction writer attracted the attention of such world famous literary figures as Tolkien, CS Lewis, Huxley, Twain and Wolfe?

“And it must be remembered that Huxley actually admired the Elizabethan exuberance of her prose.

“As to who is worse, it’s a very crowded field.

“At the moment my personal choice would be the leaden prose of Dan Brown.”

‘EXECRABLE YET HIGHLY ENTERTAINING’:

Miles Corwin is an author who in 2009 penned a piece on Ros for the Smithsonian Magazine of Washington DC.

He first came across her writing in an article in the Chicago Daily News (shut since 1978) and was hooked immediately.

“I’ve never encountered any other author who comes even close to her execrable, yet highly entertaining writing style,” Mr Corwin, a professor of journalism at University College Irvine in California.

“I wish I could say I read an entire novel of hers, but the syntax was so atrocious and the plots so convoluted, I was never able to.

“But you have to admire her indefatigable drive in the face of ridicule.

“I guess the lesson for writers today is to enjoy the process of writing, not the results, because you never know how your work will be received.

“It’s apparent from her books that she certainly enjoyed devising unusual names for her characters and she must have gotten a kick out of the playful similes and absurd metaphors. So that’s one kind of success.

“Just the fact that we’re discussing her a century later, and you’re writing another article about her, is commemoration enough.”

‘DASH YOUR SYMPATHY ON THE ROCK OF GOSSIP’:

For anyone in doubt about the uniquely weird style of Ros’ writing, here is the entire first chapter of her debut novel of 125 years ago (text courtesy of the free online library Project Gutenberg):

Sympathise with me, indeed! Ah, no! Cast your sympathy on the chill waves of troubled waters; fling it on the oases of futurity; dash it against the rock of gossip; or, better still, allow it to remain within the false and faithless bosom of buried scorn.

Such were a few remarks of Irene as she paced the beach of limited freedom, alone and unprotected.

Sympathy can wound the breast of trodden patience — it hath no rival to insure the feelings we possess, save that of sorrow.

The gloomy mansion stands firmly within the ivy-covered, stoutly-built walls of Dunfern, vast in proportion and magnificent in display.

It has been built over three hundred years, and its structure stands respectably distant from modern advancement, and in some degrees it could boast of architectural 10designs rarely, if ever, attempted since its construction.

The entrance to this beautiful home of Sir Hugh Dunfern, the present owner, is planned on most antique principles; nothing save an enormous iron gate meets the gaze of the visitor, who at first is inclined to think that all public rumours relative to its magnificence are only the utterances of the boastful and idle; nor until within its winding paths of finest pebble, studded here and there with huge stones of unpolished granite, could the mind for a moment conceive or entertain the faintest idea of its quaint grandeur.

Beautiful, however, as Dunfern mansion may seem to the anxious eye of the beholder, yet it is not altogether free from mystery.

Whilst many of its rooms, with walls of crystal, are gorgeously and profusely furnished, others are locked incessantly against the foot of the cautious intruder, having in them only a few traditional relics of no material consequence whatever, or even interest, to any outside the ancestral line of its occupants.

It has often been the chief subject of comment amongst the few distinguished visitors welcomed within its spacious apartments, why seemingly the finest rooms the mansion owned were always shut against their eager and scrutinizing gaze; or why, when referred to by any of them, the matter was always treated with silence.

All that can now be done is merely to allow the thought to dwindle into bleak oblivion, until aroused to that standard of disclosure which defies hindrance.

Within the venerable walls surrounding this erection of amazement and wonder may be seen species of trees rarely, if ever, met with; yea, within the beaded borders of this grand old mansion the eye of the privileged beholds the magnificent lake, studded on every side with stone of costliest cut and finish; the richest vineries, the most elegant ferns, the daintiest conservatories, the flowers and plants of almost every clime in abundance, the most fashionable walks, the most intricate windings that imagination could possibly conceive or genius contrive.

In fact, it has well been named “The Eden of Luxury.”

Dunfern mansion was handed down as an heirloom since its purchase by Walter, third Earl of Dunfern, in 1674; and since then has been tenderly cared for internally, and carefully guarded externally, by the skilful hands of noted artisans.

The present owner is only son of Sir John Dunfern, by Irene, adopted daughter of Lord and Lady Dilworth, of Dilworth Castle, County Kent.

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