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Updated: June 9, 2025


"Only there's a statuesque old lady about two tables back of you who has been staring at you, with intervals for refreshment, for the last five minutes. You seem to fascinate her." "An old lady?" "Yes. With a glare! She looks like Dunsany's Bird of the Difficult Eye. Count ten and turn carelessly round. There, at that table. Almost behind you." "Good Heavens!" exclaimed Jill.

Not all Lord Dunsany's moods delight me, for he writes out of a careless abundance; and from the moment I first read him I have wished to have between two covers something of all the moods that do.

And so, in the case of a being who has received much more than his share of vitality, it was altogether fitting to shorten this to Kib Dunsany's giver of life upon the earth. My heart's desire is to run on and tell many paragraphs of Kib; but that, as I have said, would be bad taste, which is one form of immorality.

When I was first moved by Lord Dunsany's work I thought that he would more help this change if he could bring his imagination into the old Irish legendary world instead of those magic lands of his with their vague Eastern air; but even as I urged him I knew that he could not, without losing his rich beauty of careless suggestion, and the persons and images that for ancestry have all those romantic ideas that are somewhere in the background of all our minds.

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