Plays of Gods and Men — Reading Companion

Diction as a Marker of Status

In The Laughter of the Gods, Tharmia declares, “You know that my lineage is almost divine,” and Arolind counters with a boast about her father's sword: “My father's sword was so terrible that he had to hide it with a cloak.” The exchange reveals how characters assert rank through exaggerated, almost parodic claims. Tharmia's retort—that the sword was hidden “because there were no jewels in the scabbard”—deflates Arolind's grandeur with a materialist jab. Dunsany's dialogue layers status anxiety beneath ornate surfaces. The women's talk of hair, shops, and palaces in Thek further underscores a courtly preoccupation with appearance. Even the men, Ichtharion and Ludibras, measure the city's worth by its flowers and winds, not its power. This diction, at once lofty and petty, defines a world where divine pretensions clash with human vanity.

The Weight of Objects in Dialogue

Dunsany often lets a single object drive the plot or reveal character. In The Laughter of the Gods, Ludibras claims he brought King Karnos to Thek by giving him orchids “from a far country.” Ichtharion counters that it was a butterfly, “There had not been one there for seven years,” that moved the king. These competing narratives—orchid versus butterfly—show how courtiers vie for credit through trivial tokens. Later, in The Queen's Enemies, the Queen's generosity is measured in tangible gifts: a country “eastwards towards Assyria,” spices from the isles, all Ethiopia, and the tribute due to Horus. The Priest of Horus, after praising her, immediately negotiates: “in the matter of the tribute due to Horus… It is yours.” Objects—orchids, butterflies, lands, tributes—are the currency of power and persuasion, and Dunsany's characters speak of them with a blend of reverence and calculation.

Voice and the Supernatural Intrusion

The Priest of Horus in The Queen's Enemies experiences a sudden prophetic moment: “I thought that one of the gods spoke to me clearly.” He hears a voice saying, “Drink not to the Future.” This intrusion of the supernatural is brief and ambiguous—the Priest dismisses it as “nothing.” Yet it disrupts the banquet's merry surface. The Queen, undeterred, proposes a toast to the future, and the Priest instead drinks to the present. Dunsany uses such moments to suggest that divine forces lurk just beneath human ceremony. The voice is not explained or elaborated; it simply appears, a crack in the social facade. This technique recurs across the plays: gods and prophecies are hinted at but rarely shown directly, leaving their reality uncertain. The characters' reactions—fear, dismissal, or manipulation—reveal more about their own natures than about the divine.

Setting as a Character in Miniature

Dunsany's settings are evoked through brief, sensory details that carry emotional weight. In The Laughter of the Gods, Barbul-el-Sharnak is described as “monstrous” and “mountainous with houses,” a place where “there are no flowers” and the winds are unknown. Thek, by contrast, is “purple with” orchids, visible “far out on the sand to the camel men.” These contrasts are not mere backdrop; they shape the characters' longings. Ludibras fears being “buried among houses” and yearns for “the windy glorious country.” The setting becomes a measure of freedom or entrapment. Similarly, in The Queen's Enemies, the banquet hall is a space of political negotiation, where the Queen dispenses lands and tributes. The exotic names—Barbul-el-Sharnak, Thek, Ethiopia—suggest a geography that is both specific and mythic, grounding the fantastical in a world that feels tangible yet strange.

Dunsany's plays reward attention to the small, deliberate choices in language and detail. The characters' voices—boastful, evasive, or prophetic—carry the weight of their worlds. Readers may find it useful to note how a single line of dialogue or a mentioned object can shift the balance of power or hint at unseen forces. The preface's dates remind us that these intricate works were composed with remarkable speed, yet their craft invites slow, careful reading.

I remember sitting with Dunsany’s ornate gods, feeling their distance, yet the dates in the preface grounded them like a friend’s handwriting. It reminded me of flipping through Mr. Punch's Dramatic Sequels — Reading Companion, where familiar characters speak differently, and the laughter turns oddly tender—both books give a strange, quiet ache for worlds just out of reach.