The good Baron himself
"It was a dark and stormy night..."
So began one of the worst novels in the English language-- the peerless Paul Clifford, by Baron Edward George Earl Bulwer-Lytton.
How bad is it? Glad you asked.
It's so entirely bad that in 1982, it spawned what is perhaps the world's greatest contest.
The annual Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest, sponsored (and run) by the English Department at San Jose State University.
The aim? Write a single sentence in the style of the good Baron. 'Flowery' and 'purple' don't even come close to describing the true god-awfulness of his writing.
The rules of the contest are simple:
1. Your entry must only be one sentence long.
2. There's no limit on the amount of words in the sentence (though 50-60 is the suggested length.)
3. Write in such a manner as to make Mr. Bulwer-Lyttton himself proud.
1. Your entry must only be one sentence long.
2. There's no limit on the amount of words in the sentence (though 50-60 is the suggested length.)
3. Write in such a manner as to make Mr. Bulwer-Lyttton himself proud.
Each year thousands of people submit tens of thousands of entries, until the (putrid) cream rises to the top, in a number of different categories (romance, western, sci-fi, etc.)
This year's overall winner is David McKenzie from Federal Way, Washington, for this fantastic(ally bad) entry:
"Folks say that if you listen real close at the height of the full moon, when the wind is blowin' off Nantucket Sound from the nor' east and the dogs are howlin' for no earthly reason, you can hear the awful screams of the crew of the "Ellie May," a sturdy whaler Captained by John McTavish; for it was on just such a night when the rum was flowin' and, Davey Jones be damned, big John brought his men on deck for the first of several screaming contests."
See? Pretty awesome(ly bad), huh? To see all the winners, go here.
Had I been a judge, here's the one that would have received my vote-- from Allentown, Pennsylvania's Eric Stoveken:
"The gutters of Manhattan teemed with the brackish slurry indicative of a significant though not incapacitating snowstorm three days prior, making it seem that God had tripped over Hoboken and spilled his smog-flavored slurpie all over the damn place."
Now, if THAT doesn't paint a disgusting(ly pretty) picture, I don't know what.
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