I got stuck for a long while on the Fantasy Masterwork write-up for Time and the Gods, and for the longest time I was clueless as to why. I kept writing and writing, and after a while I just stopped because it wasn't going anywhere I wanted. Then I stopped writing altogether because of a whole bunch of personal reasons, and most of those I've even talked about here on the blog.
A few days ago, maybe just due to the medication I was ready to again delve into it, but even then I ended up butting my head against a wall until I decided to split up the parts of the text to see what the problem was. Which is a very tried and true tactic for the longer posts and which was long overdue for this one.
I then realized immediately that I had let myself go a bit on the 'Dunsany, the man' part of the write-up and that I just didn't want to delete it, even though I should've.
So, here, for your delectation, a mildly humorous and an occasionally (unwarranted) scathing look at several aspects of Dunsany's life.
It's very incomplete (and I might come back and edit) but I bet I've got some information in here that you won't even find on Wikipedia.
Dunsany: The man
Born in 1878 in London to nobility, with a silver spoon in his hand and with the world delivered to him on an easy platter, John Moreton Drax Plunkett, the eighteenth baron himself might be forgiven for not having had to work a day in his life, or for never having been given over to backbreaking labour in order to make ends meet, and to verily be ground out under the daily toil and struggle of putting food on the table, as that would inevitably have crushed the talent and zest of a true creator, a true original, and the accomplishments of a giant in the field might have been less than those of the smallest field-mouse. I mean, God forbid Lord Dunsany were to have been born burdened by the iron ball and chain of 'working-for-a-living', right?
Far be it from me to throw shade at one of the English language's premier artists but I do generally find that the cumulative wallop of soldier, globetrotter, big-game hunter, sportsman, literary giant, and playwright has always sounded far less bombastic and admirable when you find that these people have actually been born into wealth, status and fame and have had their life's roads, and all those murky avenues and dead-end alleys ahead of them, well cleared of the debris that clogs the routes of so many of us. Not a pothole in sight, not a shred of detritus to be blown by errant winds into the spokes of benign forward momentum.
But, credit where it is due, even given the most clear and perfect road to travel, not a lot of us would be able to match the many varied achievements of this noble Englander scion.
During his life he was to become one of the most recognizable and famous writers in the English speaking world.
Before he ever published his first story or play though, the then not-yet-Lord Edward Dunsany traversed the many pitfalls of childhood with English reserve. He went to school at Cheam and college at Eton, while shuttling between the supervision of his father in Castle Dunsany, and his mother in Dunstall priory, as they mostly lived seperate lives.
By 21 he graduated from military school in Sandhurst.
That same year he also inherited the title of Lord Dunsany after the death of his father, whereafter he was promptly commissioned in the Coldstream Guards at Gibraltar. It seemed to have been a leisurely posting as he was able to take long rides through the Spanish countryside.
After this though he was active in the Second Boer war in Africa in 1900, where he fought in the battles of Graspan and Modder river, but there are scarce mentions of his time here.
Cue comments of British imperialism laid low, and a past preferably forgotten, or at best looked at through the selective rose-coloured lens of fleeting wealth and glory. Though any glory that's held onto after the use of concentration camps, under whatever pretext, has shaded from rose-coloured into a distinctly darker shade of red. Concentration camps? Yes. Look it up.
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Mind you, as a Belgian, my native association with Leopold the second, should prompt me to leave some things well enough alone, and to just shut my waffle-hole.
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Mind you, the second; the current Brexit-situation? Where we leave the past alone around here, mindful of our hidden misdeeds, there's a current imperialist sentiment rising in Great Britain. Where the British government is desperately shoving out piece-meal patriotism in a bid to remind the general populace of a so-called 'better' time before their inclusion into the European Union, which was seen as a last-ditch effort to halt the UK's economic situation, which had been declining since World War 2, which though it was not the largest catalyst for the Empire's decline, serves to mark the clear beginning of the end for the British Empire, when Britain's major colonies of the time took the opportunity to rid themselves of the 'British yoke'.
Before WW2 Britain was still riding high, which is why there's so much of this Pre-World War 2 and World War 2 war-movie veneration going on in the British media.
By 1901 Dunsany had retired from his African posting and had returned to Dunsany castle.
3 years later he married his wife, Beatrice Villiers, who went on to support him in all his interests, and who had a large role in his writing, frequently typing out whatever he dictated, amanuensis-style.
When he wrote himself, he wrote fast, never rewrote and never corrected and in 1903 he finally began to write the stories that made him a master of the fantastique. Though he would go on to write an enormous amount of fiction, he actually said himself that writing took up less than 10 percent of his adult life, and that he mostly occupied himself with sport and soldiering.
Most notable of the latter, are ever the heroic exploits of the true Patriot, defending his country and his fellow man: In 1916 Dunsany volunteered to defend his native soil, and was promptly shot in the head while driving from Dunsany Castle to Dublin when he and a fellow officer ran into an IRA-manned street barricade. Though the car itself ended up totally riddled, Dunsany and his companion managed to get clear without any damage. However, a ricochet hit Dunsany as he dodged for cover, and the bullet lodged itself in his nasal sinuses. He was taken prisoner and apologized to profusely before being rushed to a doctor. He was then put in a hospital and tenderly cared for until the IRA was pushed back.
Later in the war he spent time on the front, though he was refused forward positioning, and relegated to the terrifying tediousness of trench warfare, where he was valuable as both a trainer and, by merit of his burgeoning literary credits, for the creation of propaganda material.
Dunsany was a noted chess player and once played 7-year-reigning world champion raul Capablanca to a halt, and in 1924 won the championship of Ireland. He also invented an asymmetric version of chess where one does not use the so-called 'fairy' pieces, which is more than slightly ironic.
In World War 2 Dunsany joined the home guard, in which he witnessed the Battle of Brittain, much of which took place right over his head, and which he commemorated with a poem.
One thing I know which Milton never knew:
When Satan fell, hurled headlong to the shade
Of Hell eternal out of Heaven's blue,
I know the screaming wail his pinions made.
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After the war Dunsany traveled extensively, just like he did his whole life, but now especially to North America where he found himself more famous than in his home country.
Alas, even the best and most influential of lives come to an end and in 1957 Lord Dunsany died from appendicitis, (or quietly in a nursing home if L. Sprague de Camp is to be believed. Whatever the source, generally it is agreed upon that) he became 79 years old.
Image out of Providence, because of course.
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During his long life, Dunsany wrote over a 100 works consisting of poetry, short stories, novels, plays, essays and even an autobiography or two. During his lifetime his plays were more popular than his writings were. He was involved in radio, television, cinema and theatre.
These achievements never would have come about if he hadn't, himself, payed for the publication of his first short story collection; The Gods of Pegana, in 1905. After this, he never had to pay for the publication of anything else he ever wrote.
Born with a silver spoon in his hand, but damn it all if he didn't earn the rest of the silverware as well.
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