A question in a pub quiz has just done me a rather big favour. The question: "What was the single-syllable pen name of writer H H Munro?" Well, something somewhere had stuck, because I gave my team captain the answer straight off. 'Saki' he put down, and the point was in the bag. I'm glad the question came up, because I realised that if I knew the answer, I ought to know a bit more about the man.
Munro's forte and stock-in-trade was the humorous short story . . . and I mean short. His parodies of Edwardian society were a couple of pages long, and fitted nicely into a few columns of a daily newspaper. He was a cartoonist in words; a satirist, a master of observation and a ruthless weeder out of the appalling poseur.
Munro had been a war correspondent in the Balkans for a British newsaper in the early 20th century in a career running parallel to his fictional prose. His comedic genius, itself born of the Wildean tradition, went on to influence the likes of P G Wodehouse following in the slipstream.
What a waste, then, when Hector Hugh Munro, at the age of forty-five, was slaughtered in a shell crater on the killing fields of France in 1916 while serving as a soldier for his country. He had refused an officer's commission, and he didn't even have to be there.
One thing should be remembered about the stupidity of the Great War and its consequences. This nation (and no doubt others) lost a disastrous amount of great minds and salt-of-the earth fellows, the likes of which were impossible to replace.
Munro's forte and stock-in-trade was the humorous short story . . . and I mean short. His parodies of Edwardian society were a couple of pages long, and fitted nicely into a few columns of a daily newspaper. He was a cartoonist in words; a satirist, a master of observation and a ruthless weeder out of the appalling poseur.
Munro had been a war correspondent in the Balkans for a British newsaper in the early 20th century in a career running parallel to his fictional prose. His comedic genius, itself born of the Wildean tradition, went on to influence the likes of P G Wodehouse following in the slipstream.
What a waste, then, when Hector Hugh Munro, at the age of forty-five, was slaughtered in a shell crater on the killing fields of France in 1916 while serving as a soldier for his country. He had refused an officer's commission, and he didn't even have to be there.
One thing should be remembered about the stupidity of the Great War and its consequences. This nation (and no doubt others) lost a disastrous amount of great minds and salt-of-the earth fellows, the likes of which were impossible to replace.
Recommended reading: Saki, A lIfe of Hector Hugo Munro ( by A J Langguth)
Saki, The Complete Short Stories (Penguin)
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