Irene Iddesleigh

A romantic novel so spectacularly, unintentionally hilarious that C.S. Lewis, J.R.R. Tolkien, and the Inklings held competitions to see who could read it the longest without breaking composure. Amanda McKittrick Ros's 1897 debut is a masterwork of prose so purple it borders on the surreal, where lovers pine with such florid intensity and dialogue drips with such staggering awkwardness that readers find themselves torn between genuine bafflement and helpless laughter. The plot follows Irene Iddesleigh, a young woman whose tragic circumstances and even more tragic romantic misadventures unfold across pages of staggering, almost intentional-looking prose. This is not a novel you read for the story. You read it to witness literary history's most delicious trainwreck, to understand why serious scholars and fantasy giants found more entertainment in its spectacular failures than in most polished Victorian fare. It is bad in the way that bad can only be bad when someone was trying their very best.