Lord Dunsany (1878–1957)

If you’re interested in character development or a fast-moving, action-packed plot, Lord Dunsany’s The King of Elfland’s Daughter will probably disappoint you. On the other hand, if you remain curious about the origins of the fantasy genre beyond Tolkien but were put off by the recurrent battles of Eddison’s Zimiamvian series, then this might be more to your taste.
Yet be forewarned: there is bloodshed here, too. In addition to numerous stags, even unicorns. When I shared this show more information with a fantasy fan, he gasped, “not unicorns!” But it turns out that the unicorns, because of their stuck-up ways, aren’t beloved of their fellow creatures of Elfland, so the aptly-named Orion has little difficulty recruiting a troll to help hunt them.
Orion is the offspring of an earthling, Alveric, prince of Erl, and Lirazel (to whom the book’s title refers). Alveric enters Elfland, which turns out to be just through the hedge at the edge of Erl, to get her as his bride.
The idea was not his to begin with, though. It arose when Erl’s parliament petitioned Alveric’s father, the king of Erl, to liven up Erl with some magic. Alveric’s consent comes readily enough, nor does Lirazel hesitate to take his hand and scamper earthward through the hedge. That surprised me.
This lack of resistance gave me the feeling in the book’s first part that not much was happening. But, of course, Alveric can’t just stroll through the hedge. To hack through the life-threatening ivy that clads the giant oaks beyond, he needs a sword forged from thunderbolts by a helpful witch.
When Lirazel bears their son, Orion, the same witch is deemed the only suitable nurse.
Orion’s dual heritage gradually reveals itself. At first, Erl’s parliament (twelve village elders who do their planning in the evening while imbibing generous bowls of mead) are pleased their desire has come to fruition but then regret it. So in one way, the story illustrates the old adage, be careful what you wish for. Indeed, Lord Dunsany’s portrayal for this group’s ability to get it wrong suggests that he shares fellow fantasist Eddison’s disdain for democracy. We’re overdue for a creative fantasist to imagine a well-working democracy; I think we could use it now.
The book also illustrates a second adage, the one about the grass always greener and so on. This is the aspect of the book I most enjoyed. It’s no surprise that Elfland exerts a pull on some earthlings. It is lit by neither sun nor moon but bathed in perpetual twilight by the king’s effulgence. He has mastered time so that it moves so slowly that seemingly nothing changes (a point stylistically underlined by the author’s generous repetition of descriptive details as motifs whenever he writes about Elfland). The twist is that earth also fascinates some of Elfland’s creatures. Each day is announced by a glorious dawn and seen off by a radiant sunset. Spring seems to pass in a heartbeat. To Lirazel, as well as to Lurulu, the adventurous troll, earth’s transience is part of its beauty.
Is there a way to satisfy this mutual attraction? In Erl, Lirazel had missed her homeland; but then, after she yields to her father’s magical blandishment to return, she longs for her son (and her husband, too—at least a bit). This adds a mood previously unknown in Elfland: Sadness. The only way for her father to assuage it is to risk Elfland’s future survival. show less

Lord Dunsany's The King of Elfland's Daughter, first published in 1924, is widely acknowledged as a classic work of fantasy fiction. This is Dunsany's second novel and probably the most famous among his large body of work. It tells how the parliament of Erl asks its lord Alveric to bring magic to their isolated valley. Alveric crosses over into Elfland and wins the King of Elfland's daughter, but Lirazel is restless in the mortal world. Eventually her father's powerful rune compels her to show more leave her husband and son Orion for the ageless calm of Elfland. Alveric sets out on a hopeless quest to bring her back, while Orion grows up and becomes a hunter. Everything seems ordinary until Orion begins to hear the horns of Elfland, and hunts his first unicorn. And Lirazel languishes amidst the astonishing beauty of her father's realm, sighing for earthly things.

Oh, Dunsany's writing... I can't get over it, and apparently it has taken many other readers the same way. It is full of phrases to savor like the lines of a poem, and almost demands to be read slowly. Its archaic touch is courtesy of Dunsany's abiding love for the language of the King James Bible and his admiration of an earlier fantasy author, William Morris. His graceful style has had a powerful influence on the authors who followed; I saw elements and ideas picked up by Patricia McKillip, J. R. R. Tolkien, and possibly C. S. Lewis, to name a few. I can't describe his distinctive voice adequately; you simply must read it for yourself.

At the core of Dunsany's imagination is the idea that Elfland, or magic/enchantment, is a place bordering our ordinary everyday world ("the fields we know")—and it is far from benign. Its strangeness is not welcoming and its creatures operate under a completely different set of ideas about the world. Sometimes these differences lead to hilarity (like when we get a glimpse of the trolls' perceptions of the human world) and other times the differences are tragic (as when Alveric, angry, is unable to understand his wife's attempts to worship the Christom God by practicing worshiping the stars first). I've only found this sense of profound, unbridgeable otherness in a few other authors (one of whom is Peter S. Beagle, who cites Dunsany as a strong influence).

There is tension that eventually breaks into antagonism between Christianity and Elfland; "For between Elfland and Heaven there is no path, no flight, no way; and neither sends ambassador to the other" (219). The Freer (Christian priest) curses Elfland and all its inhabitants, which carves out a little island of unenchanted ground for him when Erl is taken into Elfland. He isn't a sympathetic figure in his harsh denunciations of magic, but Dunsany calls him "the good man," and the ordinary people who once defied his dictums by longing for magic come to regret it. Christianity isn't benign... but neither is Elfland. Over and over again we are reminded that elvish creatures are "beyond the hope of blessedness" in the Christian Heaven, which, left undescribed, seems pale and unreal next to the lush enchanted lands. I don't like the dichotomy, that the two realms are innately opposed to one another. Interestingly, Dunsany's descriptions of Elfland remind me strongly of Lewis' New Narnia—which of course is his conception of the New Heavens and the New Earth described in the Bible.

I don't usually care for Neil Gaiman, but he writes a nice introduction to this novel. He's right about taking the time to savor it; usually I read at a breakneck speed but something about this book forced me to slow down. This story is a distinctive experience; I will seek out more of Dunsany's strange wine. show less

"In vino veritas"

What an utterly charming story! I smiled or chuckled at least 50 times while I read. A feel-good story if ever there was one.

This is the story for a dog-lover. Unlike the film--which is magnificent--the dog does not die and there is no Peter O'Toole character, but never mind, you will love it anyway because the dreamy recollections of Sam Neil are all here. Plus more of them.

Our narrator, a self-styled scientific writer, has noticed that local Dean Spanley acts somewhat out show more of the ordinary for his position and invites him for drinks to dig for more information that is not of your typical collegiate ordained perspective. After a few drinks, the Dean slips and talks as if he is remembering his previous life--a quite perfectly pleasant and robust life--as a dog. The drink that brings the Dean's canine recollections back most reliably is Imperial Tokay, at just the right amount, not too much, not too little, and accompanied by the most delicate of verbal encouragements. Else, the Dean will snap out of it, back to the dull, respectable dean with his wide white collar.

The scientist narrator is absolutely convinced of the truth of the Dean's recollections and is driven to discover the keys of transmigration so that he can pass this amazing revelation on to the whole of other European fellows, astounding them with proofs that the Eastern religion is right. It takes him many dinner invitations to Dean Spanley, many glasses of Imperial Tokay, and also the enticement of a few friends to help things along.

He ultimately does learn the secrets he wanted to know. And that's all I can say.

Dean Spanley (aka Wag, aka Moon-chaser) says of man's secret to creating fire, "On the day that he gives to dogs that secret, as he one day will, dogs and men shall be equal."

It wouldn't take much to convince me that dogs are already equal. Quite possibly superior. show less

I've read that Edward Plunkett, Lord Dunsany, wrote with a quill, filling page after page just letting the words flow. That is how The King of Elfland's Daughter reads, a tone poem of fantasy, magic, and words. The story meanders on a river of prose, some of it somewhat archaic but always beautiful.
This is high fantasy at its best. An earthling prince falls in love with an Elf princess and brings her away from her kingdom. They have a son, part magic and part human. But life in fantasies is show more never smooth.
This is a small book but took me some time to read, partly because I often stopped to savor the prose.
"And her voice had the music that, of earthly things, was most like ice in thousands of broken pieces rocked by a wind of Spring upon lakes in some northern country."
Dunsany was hailed as the "Kings of Dreams". I think this passage from this book illustrates his writing best:
"And little he knew of the things that ink may do, how it can mark a dead man's thought for the wonder of later years, and tell of happenings that are gone clean away, and be a voice for us out of the dark of time, and save many a fragile thing from the pounding of heavy ages; or carry to us, over the rolling centuries, even a song from lips long dead on forgotten hills." show less