"I expect I will be talked about at the end of 1000
years" ... Amanda McKittrick Ros

Ring out those ringing bells, ting-a-ling! Sing out those singing songs, sing-a-long! Hark! The day, so long, so long despicably delayed, thus far disappointingly denied, the day of high happiness has hastened here at last, next Tuesday hence, when rightful wreaths of writerly renown will wreath themselves - at last! - upon the brow of Amanda McKittrick Ros.

Celebrated 'til now by a brave band of particularly perceptive pen wielders - need I name CS Lewis by name, or Aldous Huxley or from across the inky pond Mark Twain - her fame has spread beyond her native Irish shores and down the mists of time since her doleful day of death in 1939 to inspire Belfast's fulsome festival of literary fare to pay fealty to her fine facility of word and phrase in reading of her phrase and word.

And time is time enough for hailing her. No finer writer ever breathed a breath. You doubt it? Turn now to the beginning of her novel, Delina Delaney, that in 1898 followed hot upon the heels of her triumphant first essay athwart the noveliser's art, Irene Iddesleigh.

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?

Are you not at once convinced, converted and confounded?

Others there are who praise the praises of the great McGonagall, still others who acclaim the abundantly laudable Bulwer-Lytton with acclamation. But no, fie on you! I say fie! Fie! I defy th'entire international internetual horde to proclaim her peer, or to match her might, to recommend another writer who might wear her crown by right.