160 years ago this week, Richard Harding Davis was born. He became an American war correspondent for over three significant wars in his lifetime, also writing short stories and championing Theodore Roosevelt’s campaign for the United States presidency. I stumbled upon his work accidentally, finding a copy of Once Upon a Time in a thrift shop and deciding upon the title alone that I should try it.
Following is my somewhat underwhelmed, perhaps a bit condescending, GoodReads review of it:
Once Upon a Time by Richard Harding Davis
My rating: 4 of 5 stars
I somewhat less-than-seriously picked this book up solely for the title, having just re-watched season four of the TV series Once Upon a Time. It has nothing to do with the show but I still imagined something along the lines of a fairytale. Unicorns came to mind. It was not until I had read the first section of the book that I realised what I was reading was a collection of short stories. It was certainly not what I was expecting nor was it what I wanted, having read quite a few collections of shorter works recently. But I kept reading complacently, feeling that if I hadn’t stumbled onto a gem it was an entertaining pastime of a book.
My opinion changed decidedly for the better the more stories I read. When the stories borrowed predictable forms such as mix-ups, mistaken identities, unforeseen occurrences, and fate, Davis executes them so well that you’ve forgiven him for the see-through cliches by the time he springs a last completely unexpected twist on you in the last few sentences. The style is engaging, the characters developed, and it is entertaining light reading done well.
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That was in May of 2018, almost six years ago now, and I have since read another collection from Harding Davis, Ranson’s Folly, which I vividly recall enjoying in the early days of 2020. I wasn’t wrong at least in my estimation of his engaging style.
I have never understood why an intoxicated man feels the climax of insult is to hurl at you your name. Perhaps because he knows it is the one charge you cannot deny. But invariably before you escape, as though assured the words will cover your retreat with shame, he throws at you your full title.
Once Upon a Time
I’ve been tempted to pick up more of Harding Davis’ works, notably at one library basement book sale I went to with my sister in Carberry, in which I found a copy of one of his books bound in the wrong binding, albeit a binding with a title of another of his works. Unfortunately, the salespeople found upon an internet search that such a book was rare and maybe worth hundreds, and so I was forced to leave it behind.
Writing this and looking into Harding Davis’ life, another interesting fact to note about Harding Davis is that his mother, Rebecca Harding Davis, was also a prolific writer in her time, though largely forgotten now. His younger brother also went on to be a writer of some stamp. Just goes to show that sometimes it’s in the blood.
Born April 18, 1864, Richard Harding Davis died suddenly, just shy of his 52nd birthday, on April 11, 1916.
Fictitiously Yours 