The King of Elfland's Daughter

By Lord Dunsany

First published in 1924, “The King of Elfland’s Daughter” is Lord Dunsany’s most famous and popular novel. A masterpiece of classic, high fantasy, it is the charming and romantic tale of a lovesick prince and his fairy bride. The ruler of the human land of Erl is told by his people that they want a magical lord, so he sends his son, Alveric, to Elfland to marry the fairy king’s daughter, Lirazel. Alveric is able to win her hand and return to Erl with his bride and they soon have a son together. The fairy princess does not adapt well to the human world however and returns to her father and her home. Alveric pines for his missing wife and spends his days in a hopeless journey to find her. Lirazel comes to miss her husband and child as well and her father uses his magic to reunite the heartbroken lovers. While Lord Dunsany’s fantastical fairytale was relatively obscure for many years, interest was renewed when the novel was republished in 1969. “The King of Elfland’s Daughter” is often hailed as one of the best fantasy novels ever written and continues to enchant readers and critics alike. This edition includes a biographical afterword.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Digireads.com Publishing
• Release date: Dec 11, 2020
• ISBN: 9781420979732

Lord Dunsany

Lord Dunsany (1878-1957) was a British writer. Born in London, Dunsany—whose name was Edward Plunkett—was raised in a prominent Anglo-Irish family alongside a younger brother. When his father died in 1899, he received the title of Lord Dunsany and moved to Dunsany Castle in 1901. He met Lady Beatrice Child Villiers two years later, and they married in 1904. They were central figures in the social spheres of Dublin and London, donating generously to the Abbey Theatre while forging friendships with W. B. Yeats, Lady Gregory, and George William Russell. In 1905, he published The Gods of Pegāna, a collection of fantasy stories, launching his career as a leading figure in the Irish Literary Revival. Subsequent collections, such as A Dreamer’s Tales (1910) and The Book of Wonder (1912), would influence generations of writers, including J. R. R. Tolkein, Ursula K. Le Guin, and H. P. Lovecraft. In addition to his pioneering work in the fantasy and science fiction genres, Dunsany was a successful dramatist and poet. His works have been staged and adapted for theatre, radio, television, and cinema, and he was unsuccessfully nominated for the 1950 Nobel Prize in Literature.

Book preview

Preface

I hope that no suggestion of any strange land that may be conveyed by the title will scare readers away from this book; for, though some chapters do indeed tell of Elfland, in the greater part of them there is no more to be shown than the face of the fields we know, and ordinary English woods and a common village and valley, a good twenty or twenty-five miles from the border of Elfland.

LORD DUNSANY

Chapter I

The Plan of the Parliament of Erl

In their ruddy jackets of leather that reached to their knees the men of Erl appeared before their lord, the stately white-haired man in his long red room. He leaned in his carven chair and heard their spokesman.

And thus their spokesman said.

For seven hundred years the chiefs of your race have ruled us well; and their deeds are remembered by the minor minstrels, living on yet in their little tinkling songs. And yet the generations stream away, and there is no new thing.

What would you? said the lord.

We would be ruled by a magic lord, they said.

So be it, said the lord. It is five hundred years since my people have spoken thus in parliament, and it shall always be as your parliament saith. You have spoken. So be it.

And he raised his hand and blessed them and they went.

They went back to their ancient crafts, to the fitting of iron to the hooves of horses, to working upon leather, to tending flowers, to ministering to the rugged needs of Earth; they followed the ancient ways, and looked for a new thing. But the old lord sent a word to his eldest son, bidding him come before him.

And very soon the young man stood before him, in that same carven chair from which he had not moved, where light, growing late, from high windows, showed the aged eyes looking far into the future beyond that old lord’s time. And seated there he gave his son his commandment.

Go forth, he said, before these days of mine are over, and therefore go in haste, and go from here eastwards and pass the fields we know, till you see the lands that clearly pertain to faery; and cross their boundary, which is made of twilight, and come to that palace that is only told of in song.

It is far from here, said the young man Alveric.

Yes, answered he, it is far.

And further still, the young man said, to return. For distances in those fields are not as here.

Even so, said his father.

What do you bid me do, said the son, when I come to that palace?

And his father said: To wed the King of Elfland’s daughter.

The young man thought of her beauty and crown of ice, and the sweetness that fabulous runes had told was hers. Songs were sung of her on wild hills where tiny strawberries grew, at dusk and by early starlight, and if one sought the singer no man was there. Sometimes only her name was sung softly over and over. Her name was Lirazel.

She was a princess of the magic line. The gods had sent their shadows to her christening, and the fairies too would have gone, but that they were frightened to see on their dewy fields the long dark moving shadows of the gods, so they stayed hidden in crowds of pale pink anemones, and thence blessed Lirazel.

My people demand a magic lord to rule over them. They have chosen foolishly, the old lord said, and only the Dark Ones that show not their faces know all that this will bring: but we, who see not, follow the ancient custom and do what our people in their parliament say. It may be some spirit of wisdom they have not known may save them even yet. Go then with your face turned towards that light that beats from fairyland, and that faintly illumines the dusk between sunset and early stars, and this shall guide you till you come to the frontier and have passed the fields we know.

Then he unbuckled a strap and a girdle of leather and gave his huge sword to his son, saying: This that has brought our family down the ages unto this day shall surely guard you always upon your journey, even though you fare beyond the fields we know.

And the young man took it though he knew that no such sword could avail him.

Near the Castle of Erl there lived a lonely witch, on high land near the thunder, which used to roll in Summer along the hills. There she dwelt by herself in a narrow cottage of thatch and roamed the high fields alone to gather the thunderbolts. Of these thunderbolts, that had no earthly forging, were made, with suitable runes, such weapons as had to parry unearthly dangers.

And alone would roam this witch at certain tides of Spring, taking the form of a young girl in her beauty, singing among tall flowers in gardens of Erl. She would go at the hour when hawk-moths first pass from bell to bell. And of those few that had seen her was this son of the Lord of Erl. And though it was calamity to love her, though it rapt men’s thoughts away from all things true, yet the beauty of the form that was not hers had lured him to gaze at her with deep young eyes, till—whether flattery or pity moved her, who knows that is mortal?—she spared him whom her arts might well have destroyed and, changing instantly in that garden there, showed him the rightful form of a deadly witch. And even then his eyes did not at once forsake her, and in the moments that his glance still lingered upon that withered shape that haunted the hollyhocks he had her gratitude that may not be bought, nor won by any charms that Christians know. And she had beckoned to him and he had followed, and learned from her on her thunder-haunted hill that on the day of need a sword might be made of metals not sprung from Earth, with runes along it that would waft away, certainly any thrust of earthly sword, and except for three master-runes could thwart the weapons of Elfland.

As he took his father’s sword the young man thought of the witch.

It was scarcely dark in the valley when he left the Castle of Erl, and went so swiftly up the witch’s hill that a dim light lingered yet on its highest heaths when he came near the cottage of the one that he sought, and found her burning bones at a fire in the open. To her he said that the day of his need was come. And she bade him gather thunderbolts in her garden, in the soft earth under her cabbages.

And there with eyes that saw every minute more dimly, and fingers that grew accustomed to the thunderbolts’ curious surfaces, he found before darkness came down on him seventeen: and these he heaped into a silken kerchief and carried back to the witch.

On the grass beside her he laid those strangers to Earth. From wonderful spaces they came to her magical garden, shaken by thunder from paths that we cannot tread; and though not in themselves containing magic were well adapted to carry what magic her runes could give. She laid the thigh-bone of a materialist down, and turned to those stormy wanderers. She arranged them in one straight row by the side of her fire. And over them then she toppled the burning logs and the embers, prodding them down with the ebon stick that is the sceptre of witches, until she had deeply covered those seventeen cousins of Earth that had visited us from their etherial home. She stepped back then from her fire and stretched out her hands, and suddenly blasted it with a frightful rune. The flames leaped up in amazement. And what had been but a lonely fire in the night, with no more mystery than pertains to all such fires, flared suddenly into a thing that wanderers feared.

As the green flames, stung by her runes, leaped up, and the heat of the fire grew intenser, she stepped backwards further and further, and merely uttered her runes a little louder the further she got from the fire. She bade Alveric pile on logs, dark logs of oak that lay there cumbering the heath; and at once, as he dropped them on, the heat licked them up; and the witch went on pronouncing her louder runes, and the flames danced wild and green; and down in the embers the seventeen, whose paths had once crossed Earth’s when they wandered free, knew heat again as great as they had known, even on that desperate ride that had brought them here. And when Alveric could no longer come near the fire, and the witch was some yards from it shouting her runes, the magical flames burned all the ashes away and that portent that flared on the hill as suddenly ceased, leaving only a circle that sullenly glowed on the ground, like the evil pool that glares where thermite has burst. And flat in the glow, all liquid still, lay the sword.

The witch approached it and pared its edges with a sword that she drew from her thigh. Then she sat down beside it on the earth and sang to it while it cooled. Not like the runes that enraged the flames was the song she sang to the sword: she whose curses had blasted the fire till it shrivelled big logs of oak crooned now a melody like a wind in summer blowing from wild wood gardens that no man tended, down valleys loved once by children, now lost to them but for dreams, a song of such memories as lurk and hide along the edges of oblivion, now flashing from beautiful years of glimpse of some golden moment, now passing swiftly out of remembrance again, to go back to the shades of oblivion, and leaving on the mind those faintest traces of little shining feet which when dimly perceived by us are called regrets. She sang of old Summer noons in the time of harebells: she sang on that high dark heath a song that seemed so full of mornings and evenings preserved with all their dews by her magical craft from days that had else been lost, that Alveric wondered of each small wandering wing, that her fire had lured from the dusk, if this were the ghost of some day lost to man, called up by the force of her song from times that were fairer. And all the while the unearthly metal grew harder. The white liquid stiffened and turned red. The glow of the red dwindled. And as it cooled it narrowed: little particles came together, little crevices closed: and as they closed they seized the air about them, and with the air they caught the witch’s rune, and gripped it and held it forever. And so it was it became a magical sword. And little magic there is in English woods, from the time of anemones to the falling of leaves, that was not in the sword. And little magic there is in southern downs, that only sheep roam over and quiet shepherds, that the sword had not too. And there was scent of thyme in it and sight of lilac, and the chorus of birds that sings before dawn in April, and the deep proud splendour of rhododendrons, and the litheness and laughter of streams, and miles and miles of may. And by the time the sword was black it was all enchanted with magic.

Nobody can tell you about that sword all that there is to be told of it; for those that know of those paths of Space on which its metals once floated, till Earth caught them one by one as she sailed past on her orbit, have little time to waste on such things as magic, and so cannot tell you how the sword was made, and those who know whence poetry is, and the need that man has for song, or know any one of the fifty branches of magic, have little time to waste on such things as science, and so cannot tell you whence its ingredients came. Enough that it was once beyond our Earth and was now here amongst our mundane stones; that it was once but as those stones, and now had something in it such as soft music has; let those that can define it.

And now the witch drew the black blade forth by the hilt, which was thick and on one side rounded, for she had cut a small groove in the soil below the hilt for this purpose, and began to sharpen both sides of the sword by rubbing them with a curious greenish stone, still singing over the sword an eerie song.

Alveric watched her in silence, wondering, not counting time; it may have been for moments, it may have been while the stars went far on their courses. Suddenly she was finished. She stood up with the sword lying on both her hands. She stretched it out curtly to Alveric; he took it, she turned away; and there was a look in her eyes as though she would have kept that sword, or kept Alveric. He turned to pour out his thanks, but she was gone.

He rapped on the door of the dark house; he called Witch, Witch along the lonely heath, till children heard on far farms and were terrified. Then he turned home, and that was best for him.

Chapter II

Alveric Comes in Sight of the Elfin Mountains

To the long chamber, sparsely furnished, high in a tower, in which Alveric slept, there came a ray direct from the rising sun. He awoke, and remembered at once the magical sword, which made all his awaking joyous. It is natural to feel glad at the thought of a recent gift, but there was also a certain joy in the sword itself, which perhaps could communicate with Alveric’s thoughts all the more easily just as they came from dreamland, which was pre-eminently the sword’s own country; but, however it be, all those that have come by a magical sword, have always felt that joy while it still was new, clearly and unmistakably.

He had no farewells to make, but thought it better instantly to obey his father’s command than to stay to explain why he took upon his adventure a sword that he deemed to be better than the one his father loved. So he stayed not even to eat, but put food in a wallet and slung over him by a strap a bottle of good new leather, not waiting to fill it for he knew he should meet with streams; and, wearing his father’s sword as swords are commonly worn, he slung the other over his back with its rough hilt tied near his shoulder, and strode away from the Castle and Vale of Erl. Of money he took but little, half a handful of copper only, for use in the fields we know; for he knew not what coin or what means of exchange were used on the other side of the frontier of twilight.

Now the Vale of Erl is very near to the border beyond which there is none of the fields we know. He climbed the hill and strode over the fields and passed through woods of hazel; and the blue sky shone on him merrily as he went by the way of the fields, and the blue was as bright by his feet when he came to the woods, for it was the time of the bluebells. He ate, and filled his water-bottle, and travelled all day eastwards, and at evening the mountains of faery came floating into view, the colour of pale forget-me-nots.

As the sun set behind Alveric he looked at those pale-blue mountains to see with what colour their peaks would astonish the evening; but never a tint they took from the setting sun, whose splendour was gilding all the fields we know, never a wrinkle faded upon their precipices, never a shadow deepened, and Alveric learned that for nothing that happens here is any change in the enchanted lands.

He turned his eyes from their serene pale beauty back to the fields we know. And there, with their gables lifting into the sunlight above deep hedgerows beautiful with Spring, he saw the cottages of earthly men. Past them he walked while the beauty of evening grew, with songs of birds, and scents wandering from flowers, and odours that deepened and deepened, and evening decked herself to receive the Evening Star. But before that star appeared the young adventurer found the cottage he sought; for, flapping above its doorway, he saw the sign of huge brown hide with outlandish letters in gilt which proclaimed the dweller below to be a worker in leather.

An old man came to the door when Alveric knocked, little and bent with age, and he bent more when Alveric named himself. And the young man asked for a scabbard for his sword, yet said not what sword it was. And they both went into the cottage where the old wife was, by her big fire, and the couple did honour to Alveric. The old man then sat down near his thick table, whose surface shone with smoothness wherever it was not pitted by little tools that had drilled through pieces of leather all that man’s lifetime and in the times of his fathers. And then he laid the sword upon his knees and wondered at the roughness of hilt and guard, for they were raw unworked metal, and at the huge width of the sword; and then he screwed up his eyes and began to think of his trade. And in a while he thought out what must be done; and his wife brought him a fine hide; and he marked out on it two pieces as wide as the sword, and a bit wider than that.

And any questions he asked concerning that wide bright sword Alveric somewhat parried, for he wished not to perplex his mind by telling him all that it was: he perplexed that old couple enough a little later when he asked them for lodging for the night. And this they gave him with as many apologies as if it were they that had asked a favour, and gave him a great supper out of their cauldron, in which boiled everything that the old man snared; but nothing that Alveric was able to say prevented them giving up their bed to him and preparing a heap of skins for their own night’s rest by the fire.

And after their supper the old man cut out the two wide pieces of leather with a point at the end of each and began to stitch them together on each side. And then Alveric began to ask him of the way, and the old leather-worker spoke of North and South and West and even of north-east, but of East or south-east he spoke never a word. He dwelt near the very edge of the fields we know, yet of any hint of anything lying beyond them he or his wife said nothing. Where Alveric’s journey lay upon the morrow they seemed to think the world ended.

And pondering afterwards, in the bed they gave him, all that the old man had said, Alveric sometimes marvelled at his ignorance, and yet sometimes wondered if it might have been skill by which those two had avoided all the evening any word of anything lying to the East or south-east of their home. He wondered if in his early days the old man might have gone there, but he was unable even to wonder what he had found there if he had gone. Then Alveric fell asleep, and dreams gave him hints and guesses of the old man’s wanderings in Fairyland, but gave him no better guides than he had already, and these were the pale-blue peaks of the Elfin Mountains.

The old man woke him after he had slept long. When he came to the day-room a bright fire was burning there, his breakfast was ready for him and the scabbard made, which fitted the sword exactly. The old people waited on him silently and took payment for the scabbard, but would not take aught for their hospitality. Silently they watched him rise to go, and followed him without a word to the door, and outside it watched him still, clearly hoping that he would turn to the North or West; but when he turned and strode for the Elfin Mountains, they watched him no more, for their faces never were turned that way. And though they watched him no longer yet he waved his hand in farewell; for he had a feeling for the cottages and fields of these simple folk, such as they had not for the enchanted lands. He walked in the sparkling morning through scenes familiar from infancy; he saw the ruddy orchis flowering early, reminding the bluebells they were just past their prime;

Reviews for The King of Elfland's Daughter

[marklacy-355086 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

A little difficult at times to get through Dunsany's flowing prose. Not extremely interesting, very little if any excitement.

[electrascaife · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

The people come to the lord of the realm and ask him to find them a magic lord to rule them in his stead. He recognizes the foolishness of their request, but sends his son to the elvish world to find and bring back the daughter of the elf king as a wife. Things...don't go as planned. She turns out to be like any other Other Wife, unsuited and unwilling to conform to common ways. Also, the elf king isn't exactly best pleased with the arrangement. Consequences ensue. *Sigh* I was excited about this one. I tend to love this kind of thing, and when I read Neil Gaiman's introduction to the book, in which he practically gushes over how wonderful the story is, I couldn't wait to get into it. And then...I couldn't. Get into it, that is. It was written in 1924 but pretends to be much older, language-wise, which I found irritating. And the narrator is too far removed from the characters for my taste, which is, I realize, another old-timey quality, so kudos to Dunsany, I guess, for mastering his fake language antiquities. But I'm frustrated by my not really enjoying it, because not only Gaiman, but tons of other name brand authors absolutely love this book and I just can't see why. Gah. I have FOMO and I'm mad about it.

[n.w.moors-1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

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 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."

[libbromus · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

Poetical? Yes. In a class with Tolkein? Uhm, no. Admired by Neil Gaiman? Apparently, yes. Admired by me? No. This story is light on character development, light on plot, pretty much humorless, with poor parenting choices, and loads of slaughtered beasts, including a ghastly unicorn hunt which nearly made me put the book down (yep, definitely judging here - I would make a terrible anthropologist). It reminds me of the Bible. No, seriously. For the aforementioned reasons but also, I'd say 90% of the sentences and paragraphs begin with "And," as in "And then when ..." "And the next day ..." "And there was ..." followed by phrases like "thus (such and such...)" and "for (such and such)." Some examples:"And Alveric would not speak the words ... for no man, he foolishly thought, should compromise in matters touching on heathenesse.""And to the land thus expectant, thus watchful ..."The young person in this story is abandoned by both of his parents and goes feral, becoming a bloodthirsty hunter of, it seems, anything that wasn't his pack of hunting dogs. He killed animals, wore animals, ate animals, and dreamed of killing more animals. Special guy.Luckily, it's short. But really, this could be a 20 page picture book for tykes and I'd get the very same message. Come to that, I don't have a clue what the message might be. Scratch that idea.

[plappen_1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Written in the early 20th century, This fantasy tale is about a small town that wishes to be ruled by a magic lord.Several leading citizens of the Vale of Erl go to their King, suggesting that a magic lord will help their town to be famous far and wide. The King sends his son, Alveric, into Elfland to bring back Lirazel, the King's daughter, as his bride. The misty border between the two lands causes those who live just to the west of Elfland to pretend that the compass direction of East, toward Elfland, does not exist.Lirazel produces a son, Orion, but the marriage is not happy. She is unwilling, or unable, to give up her belief in praying to the stars, in favor of Alveric's religion. In his desperation to get her back, Lirazel's father sent over a powerful rune to Lirazel, which she puts in a drawer. She knows that if she reads the rune, it will immediately send her back to Elfland. After being told, again, to give up her religion, now, in frustration, Lirazel uses the rune. Alveric immediately goes after her. After traveling for several days through a vast wasteland, he is forced to realize that not only has the castle of Elfland disappeared, but the entire land of Elfland has vanished.Alveric goes back to Erl and puts together an expedition to the far North to find some piece of Elfland that is not gone. After several years, a couple of members of the expedition return to Erl, no longer as committed to finding Elfland as they once were. Alveric shows no sign of giving up. Watching with her father, Lirazel begins to think that maybe she should go back to Alveric. Do they get back together? Do the people of Erl get their wish to be ruled by a magic lord?This was written in a very different time, so it is not a quick read; it will take some effort on the part of the reader. But that effort will be richly rewarded, because Dunsany, one of the overall masters of the fantasy field, does a wonderful job with the language and descriptions of this story. It is lyrical and poetic and it is a joy to read.

[bayardus-1 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

The King of Elfland's Daughter has some beautiful writing and does not take the usual fantasy route, but ultimately I only thought it was okay.

The overarching theme I got from this book is that the grass always looks greener (or in this case more twilight colored) on the other side. The event that sets the book in motion is a delegation of the common people asking their lord for a magical ruler. They imagine this distinction will bring them fame and happiness, but when they finally get their wish they come to regret it. Likewise the titular daughter yearns for the purples of Elfland when she is first brought to our world, then yearns for our world upon her return to her own. Ditto her husband, ditto a bunch of trolls. This brings the resolution into question in an interesting way as well: if the grass always appears greener when it isn't, then the King of Elfland's decision to use his final rune might have been the wrong one, as it seemingly abolishes the divide between the two worlds. Will this lead to the best of both worlds, or will it leave everyone pining for worlds that no longer exist? We don't find out, but the dark future that the King foresees doesn't suggest an easy journey.

Lord Dunsany can write well, and it was fun to read a work of fantasy that heavily influenced what followed (Lud-in-the-Mist comes to mind especially), but some flaws were that characters lacked much characterization and underwent no development, and that some of the sections of the story seemed rather pointless. Orion's infatuation for hunting, and eventually for hunting unicorns, serves to make the barriers between worlds more porous, but a lot of time was spent on it when the same could have been accomplished in far fewer pages. Other segments seemed overlong as well.

This book is loads better than most fantasy out there, so it's worth reading if you're a fan of the genre, but overall I found it pretty good instead of great.

[bluesalamanders · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

The council of Erl gather and speak and decide that they want their next lord to be magical. They tell their ruler this, and he sends his son to Elfland to find and marry the King of Elfland’s daughter.I was surprised that the prince managed to find and marry the princess within the first chapter. That meant that the rest of the book had to be about - other things. It is a slow and meandering tale, with intricate and poetic language and not a lot of action. Sometimes I found the style and speed distracting, but generally I enjoyed it.I thought I first heard of this book in a preface or afterward in one of Robin McKinley’s novels, though I can’t find it now. It makes sense, though; I can see the influence of this book’s style and language and characters throughout her work.I'm glad I read it, but I'll be honest: it's not a book I'm planning to read again, and I wouldn't recommend it to most people.

[hellcold · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

An overstretched fairy tale where, most of the time, nothing really happens. I went through the story pretty slowly, reading only a couple of chapters at a time, till I reached the end. But nothing changed, I've read endless stretches of beautiful prose about the various fantastic flowers and animals of Elfland, so what?Some people liked this story. I didn't.Three stars because it was well written, and because it could have been much, much better...

[ragwaine · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I've read a bunch of Dunsany's short stuff and really liked it but this is his first novel that I've read (I don't think he has too many novels). The style is not exactly Shakespeareian but it is definitely a type of vaulted prose that would turn many people off. It's filled with run-on sentences that sometimes lose the subject but still sound beautiful.The plot was interesting and the characters memorable, I really enjoyed reading names like Ziroonderel and Lirazel aloud in my fantasy-accented voice.Not much happened in the way of action to be found here. It does have fairy-talesque quality but the ending was not typical and in some ways a let down for me.

[lisamaria_c · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

This book was recommended in A Reader's Guide to Fantasy on it's "Seven-League Shelf"--a list of the 33 most important books in the genre--at least as of 1982 when the guide was published. The King of Elfland's Daughter was published in 1924--well before CS Lewis' Narnia or Tolkien's Chronicles of Middle Earth. The writing has a fairy tale quality--although as Lin Carter who wrote the introduction points out, it's rather subversive in twisting the requisite happily ever after. The heart of the story begins when most fairy tales end--after the marriage of the fairy princess. The style is lyrical, with the cadence and repetitions of an epic poem (often repeated is the phrase "the fields we know"). Its language is slightly archaic (not as much as in parts of Tolkien's Lord of the Rings though) and there's little dialogue, which contributes to the rather ponderous feel. At times the book sported long sinuous sentences. Here's a quote that gives you a flavor:Not like the runes that enraged the flames was the song she sang to the sword: she whose curses had blasted the fire till it shriveled big logs of oak crooned now a melody like a wind in summer blowing from wild wood gardens that no man tended, down valleys loved once by children, now lost to them but for dreams, a song of such memories as lurk and hide along the edges of oblivion, now flashing from beautiful years of glimpse of some golden moment, now passing swiftly out of remembrance again, to go back to the shades of oblivion, and leaving on the mind those faintest traces of little shining feet which when dimly perceived by us are called regrets.I loved the way Lirazel, the King of Elfland's daughter, is painted. Her alien mindset, how she's never at home in our world, yet once she returns to Elfland pines for earthly things. Next to her, Tolkien's elven maidens are mundane. The ordinary and human village of Erl and the magical Elfland clash and conflict and connect in ways I didn't expect. Our foxes are creatures of fable there, as their unicorns are here--and both occasionally pass boundaries. There be trolls. Not evil lumbering monsters, but mischievous, agile, curious. The troll Lurulu is a winning character. There are powerful magical runes, and even a fellowship on a quest. This isn't a fast-paced action tale but rather the opposite, rather dreamy and slow moving, and although it's not very long--248 pages in my edition--it's not the kind of story you rush through, and probably will strike the usual fantasy reader as rather weird really. I wouldn't count it as a favorite, exactly. I can't imagine ever rereading it. The characters are a bit thin, not the kind I fall in love with and want to revisit. But Lord Dunsany created a unique fantastic landscape I found well worth journeying through. His book has a shimmering otherworldly quality that reminds me of Debussey's tone poem La Cathédrale Engloutie.

[atimco-1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

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 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.

[charlesferdinand_1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

This is usually called a fantasy novel, which I think doesn't do it justice. It leads the reader to expect high adventure and action, while in fact this book is a very poetic fairytale about human dreams and aspirations. So, depending on your viewpoint, this is the most boring book ever, or a wonderful and enchanting tale. I found it beautifully written, and for all its whimsy, it has much wisdom. Not recommended for unicorn lovers, however.

[jonathangorman_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Pretty good. The start of the book is a little dry. From what little I know of Dunsany I'd guess it was a later book. His use of language is far less flowery than in some of his work and was a bit difficult for me to get the flow of at first. Once the book got going though it was very, very good. I could also easily see reading this to a kid. If you like fantasy, this is a good one to start with. Look online if you don't mind reading. It should be out of copyright in most places, although I'm not a lawyer ;).

[twilightnocturne · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

In a different world, and a different time, "The King of Elfland's Daughter" is a fantasy novel that came before fantasy was even an actual genre. Lord Dunsany, an Irish writer & poet, known heavily for his short stories, was a one of a kind talent in his time -- painting new, lush, imaginative worlds with strange an engaging characters and plots. To put it as clear as possible, Mr. Dunsany crossed the boundaries of twilight when it came to creative writing, and is in many ways, a pioneer of the genre itself. Written before more mainstream and well known fantasy works such as The Hobbit and Lord of the Rings, "The King of Elfland's Daughter" is a beautifully written fairy tale of elves, unicorns, princesses, magic, and so much more.Set in the vale of Erl, "The King Of Elfland's Daughter" starts it's tale with one of our main characters, Alveric, who is sent beyond the fields we know; into the world of faerie. His mission, assigned to him by his father and lord of erl, is to cross the border of twilight and bring back the elven princess of Faerie for the purpose of enchanting Erl with magic -- breaking it free from its mundane, all-to-worldly existence. Well, all goes well quite fast..and the story starts as many would end -- with a happily ever after -- or should I say, where the happily ever after would start. Though unlike most books where the happily ever after is on the closing page, THIS happily ever after is brought to the forefront just within the first few chapters, and soon goes sour, and that, in essence, is where the heart of the story begins and lies. The experience after the happily ever after.Filled with beautiful, descriptive, and poetic imagery, "The King Of Elfland's Daughter" is a book that should not be devoured -- but savored. Lord Dunsany is a true story teller, and wraps this unique tale with a complex writing style of his own -- one that archaically paints the picture -- bringing the words and characters and actions to life. Enhancing them with a certain kind of magic – the magic of wonder, imagination, and power. While some may find his style a bit much -- perhaps, a bit TOO descriptive or wordy, I found it enchanting in it's own right -- for without this special touch, the story would not have been as majestically effective.Aside from the brilliant writing style, and poetic feel of this lovely piece, I also must point out that I enjoyed the contrast between Elfland and Erl. The distinct variation in time, in motion, in change. While Elfland stood nearly changeless, frozen in it's perfective beauty, the real world went on and withered, and died, and bloomed, and prospered. The sun would rise, and then set. The stars would come out – the moon would grace the sky. And while the people of Erl longed for the ageless beautify of the magnificent Elfland, other creatures in Elfland we're equally fascinated and entranced by the beauty of change – the beauty of the fields WE know. I liked this concept – the concept of the grass always being greener on the other side, and how true it really is. In truth, "The King of Elfland's Daughter" is not for everyone. At times the story seemed to be plod along a bit slowly, and on some nights, after such hectic days with so many thoughts and words rolling in and out of my mind, I found keeping focus on this story a bit tough -- for reading this novel without concentration rather disturbs the experience. But all in all, I found this to be a great and interesting read -- a fascinating look into what fantasy really was and how it started -- and how it became the phenomenon that it is today. And while this in itself, made the read interesting -- I found the story to be fulfilling and the characters to be engaging in their own right – especially the troll, Lurulu (yes I must add this, I did love him). As I close this review, I'll say this -- if you're a fan of Fantasy and want to see how it, in many ways, came to be -- check this out. If you enjoy poetic, enchanting stories that truly rely on the beauty of writing itself – the magic of creating real worlds and characters through the use of language and words -- bringing them to life -- making them real to us, for that momentary read -- then check this out. As said, “The King Of Elfland's Daugther” is not to be devoured. It is to be enjoyed -- savored -- experienced. While reading this novel, I truly felt like I was having an experience, and I hope that you, after reading this, will take the time to do so as well. It is, in my mind, well worth it. So travel now beyond the fields we know, and experience the magic that is deeply entwined with this fantastic book. If you have the patience and desire to read a true fairy tale, one that not only captivates but inspires, then you will NOT be disappointed. I wasn't!

[tadad_1 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

This is not a book I’d recommend to someone looking for a fantasy novel. Did I enjoy it? Yes. Recommend it to friends? No. If you are a scholar, or someone who enjoys a read where the language, itself, is the object, or even if you’re a complete-ist reader who’s going to read every fantasy work every written, you’ll come to this own your own and that’s fine; you will probably enjoy this. If none of those apply, then I think this is a book likely to disappoint. The cynical side of me says that it gets such an overwhelming number of 4 and 5 stars because nobody wants to diss a book that’s viewed as a seminal work. The thing about a seminal work is that, just because something was first, doesn’t mean that it will be enjoyed by those whose tastes were formed by the fiction of several generations later —there’s a reason that most of the Dickens canon is no longer as popular as it was in Victorian England. I despise the pendants who smugly brand everyone with less "cultivated" tastes as philistine: reading should be a pleasure, so I recommend people find what they like and read it. Essentially, I think the book will likely be just too dated to be read coming into to the genre cold. The writing is very beautiful in a lyrical way. However, the somewhat archaic style…flowery, dreamy, languid…can require an effort of will. There are long descriptive, sometimes repetitive, passages with very little dialog in the story. The characters will appear thin by modern standards. Our literature tends to describe characters fully, drawing the reader in to invest in the characters. Dunsany’s characters are much more remote, much like Elfland, itself. You are not allowed inside them. In some sense, I reacted to them as if they were part of the landscape we were viewing, rather than inhabitants within it. The plot will also seem a bit simple to the modern reader. The basic plot of “boy gets girl, boy loses girl, boy gets girl” is, perhaps, no more light-weight than “hobbit gets evil artifact, hobbit destroys evil artifact, world is saved.” However, the latter epic was fleshed out with truly evil bad guys, mythic creatures, and substantial adventures. The King of Elfland’s Daughter really has none of that. The challenges facing Averil would seem like minor inconveniences to a “modern” hero. It’s a fairy tale with very little extra flesh in the way of surprise or excitement added. Actually, it’s that fairy tale-ness that provides one of the best aspects of the book. The ending was not the “happily ever after” we’ve come to expect (and, sometimes, be bored by). Just like a fairy tale, it brought home a point of morality that was delightful. I enjoyed this book. I liked the sensation of floating along on a dream that I got when reading it. However, I won’t recommend it to friends asking—I’ll let them find it on their own.

[jvalka_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

It took me a while to get used to the author's prose, which is very poetic, lyrical and wistful. It's the kind of writing that's easy to imitate, but incredibly difficult to do correctly. I think this was highly influential on Neil Gaiman's "Stardust" (he writes an introduction to this edition). Even though the book is short, the narrative spans several years, weaving back and forth between Alveric, his grown son Orion, Lirazel and a troll named Lurulu. I enjoyed it much more as soon as I realized that it wasn't plotted in a traditional way. One to read again some time.