Dame Edith Sitwell: The Grand Eccentric of English Letters
There are eccentrics, and then there is Dame Edith Sitwell—an aristocratic poet, critic, and all-around formidable presence in 20th-century literature. She was the human embodiment of a Gothic cathedral: imposing, unshakable, and almost certainly haunted by the ghosts of lesser poets. Tall, angular, and imperious, she was rarely seen without extravagant brocade gowns, towering headpieces, and a string of pearls long enough to lasso a passing bus. If poetry had an empress, Edith Sitwell was it—whether anyone else acknowledged her reign or not.
Born in 1887 into a family with more money than warmth, Edith grew up in Renishaw Hall, a grand estate in Derbyshire, surrounded by parents who treated affection as though it were a rare and highly taxable commodity. Her father, Sir George Sitwell, was an eccentric in his own right—he once tried to replace the lawn with green-painted gravel to avoid the bother of mowing. Her mother, Lady Ida, was no more nurturing, eventually ending up in debtor’s prison. It is no surprise that young Edith retreated into poetry, possibly as an escape from the constant feeling that she’d been born into a rather surreal Edwardian novel.
Edith Versus the World
While the literary establishment often dismissed her as an oddity, Edith was not one to go quietly into obscurity. Her poetry, much like her personality, was grand, experimental, and filled with an almost theatrical love for sound and rhythm. In 1923, she published Façade, a collection of poems designed to be read aloud over an orchestral composition by the avant-garde composer William Walton. This was poetry as performance art, long before performance art was a thing. The critics, naturally, were baffled.
At the premiere, Edith (always ahead of her time in the realm of dramatic entrances) read her work through a megaphone while concealed behind a decorative screen. Some assumed this was for artistic effect; others suspected it was to avoid being pelted with tomatoes.
Rivalries, Feuds, and Unforgivable Insults
It takes a special kind of person to get into a lifelong feud with Noël Coward, but Edith Sitwell was never one to do things by halves. Coward, ever the wit, once described her as “an eager, egocentric dragon.” Edith, never outdone, returned fire by declaring that he had “a talent that amuses, but does not endure.”
Virginia Woolf was another literary figure who failed to appreciate Edith’s towering presence. Woolf once referred to her as “wearing all her rings over gloves, like a stage duchess.” Sitwell, in turn, dismissed Woolf as an “arid intellectual.” Theirs was not a friendship built to last.
Her most famous literary rivalry, however, was with the ever-sardonic Evelyn Waugh, who took great pleasure in mocking her. When asked about Waugh’s particularly scathing insults, Edith merely responded: “I am patient with stupidity, but not with those who are proud of it.” A flawless comeback, if ever there was one.
Edith’s Unexpected Wartime Glow-Up
For much of her career, Edith was considered a rather niche interest—one of those poets who inspired admiration but never quite broke through to the mainstream. And then, World War II happened. During the Blitz, Edith’s poetry took on a new resonance. Still Falls the Rain, a poem about the bombings, was widely acclaimed and catapulted her into the literary limelight.
Suddenly, the world found itself drawn to this imposing, slightly terrifying woman who had been writing in the shadows for decades. She was made a Dame in 1954, cementing her status as literary royalty—not that she had ever doubted it.
The Art of Being Dame Edith Sitwell
In her later years, Edith Sitwell fully leaned into her own legend. She once announced that she could communicate with peacocks (a claim that, if true, would still not be the strangest thing about her). She had an opinion on everything, particularly modern poetry, which she viewed with the kind of disdain most people reserve for cold soup.
She also had a habit of embellishing stories about her life, never letting the truth get in the way of a good anecdote. When asked if she was descended from Plantagenet kings, she replied, “Probably,” which is the kind of confident vagueness we should all aspire to.
The Final Word
Dame Edith Sitwell was not a poet of the people, nor did she try to be. She was dramatic, imposing, and absolutely unwilling to play the role of modest literary genius. And why should she? She understood better than most that the world does not remember the timid.
Her poetry may not have been to everyone’s taste, but her personality? That was a work of art.