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?
—Opening lines of Delina Delaney
I first read this sentence nearly three years ago. Since then, I have read it once a week in an increasingly desperate search for meaning. But I still don't understand it.The zenith of the nadir of the art of literary craftsmanship, Amanda McKittrick Ros (1860-1939) penned prose of an extravagantly amethyst tint, with plots involving sorrow and the ruination of lives.Robbed, she was, of a self-perpendicular perception of the mirthfulness of her volcanic verbosity, and those carping, craven, cack-handed criticasters who dared to draw the attention of the patient public to her insignificant lapses from literary excellence never failed to draw the livid lightning of her righteous wrath.The Inklings, a gathering of wordsmiths whose ranks included C.S. Lewis and J.R.R. Tolkien, had a roaring time with the attempt to see who could go through these works of hers and hold back mirth for more time than others. Some of her specialties:
—Nick Page, In Search of the World's Worst Writers, on the above sentence.
Tomes crafted by her pen:
Tropes employed in her works: