Nonsense Novels — Key Ideas to Explore

Recurring Images and Absurd Props

Across the collection, Leacock relies on a small set of exaggerated objects to signal genre parody. The detective’s office contains “goggles, blue spectacles and motor glasses”; the Highland glen in “Hannah of the Highlands” is described with a “dense Highland forest that stretched a hundred yards in either direction.” These details are not merely decorative—they are the joke. By specifying the trivial (the distance of the forest, the number of badges), Leacock mimics the earnest precision of genre writing while revealing its emptiness. The lobsters in Hannah’s burn “clung affectionately to her toes,” a detail that undercuts the romantic pastoral. Such props recur: false whiskers, secret badges, fishing boots, and stovepipe wire appear as markers of a world where objects are more vivid than characters.

Movement Between Scenes and Genre Jumps

The structure of Nonsense Novels is a rapid-fire sequence of genre parodies, each with its own setting and tone. The table of contents lists twelve stories, moving from detective fiction (“Maddened by Mystery”) to psychic story (“Q.”) to chivalric romance (“Guido the Gimlet of Ghent”) to governess romance (“Gertrude the Governess”) and beyond. Within each story, the movement is often abrupt: the detective tears open cryptograms, then disguises himself, then a secretary enters. In “Hannah of the Highlands,” the narrative shifts from a mock-heroic description of Scottish history (Bonnie Prince Charlie, the Bruce, William Wallace) to a quiet scene of lobster-gathering. These jumps are part of the parody—they mimic the breathless transitions of pulp fiction while exposing their implausibility. The reader is never allowed to settle into a single mood; the comedy depends on constant dislocation.

The Parodic Voice and Its Targets

Leacock’s narrator adopts a tone of exaggerated earnestness that undercuts every scene. In the preface, he claims the book is offered “without apology” and that his education as a professor “has failed” to improve him. This self-deprecation sets the stage for a series of stories that mock not only genre conventions but also the pretensions of literary criticism. In “Hannah of the Highlands,” the narrator describes the rain as “falling softly and quietly, bringing dampness and moisture, and almost a sense of wetness”—a parody of overwrought description. The list of historical events in the same story (Culloden, Bannockburn, Killiecrankie) is absurdly compressed, with William Wallace pausing “to change his breeches.” The target is not history itself but the way historical fiction inflates every detail into significance. Leacock’s voice remains consistent: polite, academic, and utterly ridiculous.

Structure as a Source of Comedy

The collection’s structure—twelve discrete parodies—allows Leacock to vary pacing and focus. Each story follows a recognizable arc: a mystery is introduced and solved (or not), a romance is begun and concluded, a sea voyage is undertaken. But the arcs are deliberately flattened. In “Maddened by Mystery,” the detective’s methods are so exaggerated that the solution becomes irrelevant. In “Hannah of the Highlands,” the romantic encounter is interrupted by the mundane question, “Will you sell me one of your lobsters?” The structure of each story mirrors the genre it parodies, but the payoff is always anticlimactic. This pattern—build-up followed by deflation—is the book’s central comic mechanism. The reader’s familiarity with genre formulas is essential; Leacock assumes we know the rules so he can break them.

Readers approaching Nonsense Novels will find the most pleasure in recognizing the genres Leacock targets—detective, romance, sea story, historical fiction—and watching him dismantle their conventions with surgical precision. The book rewards attention to small details: a misplaced prop, a deadpan aside, a historical figure reduced to a punchline. It is best read in short bursts, letting each parody land before moving to the next. The humor is dry, academic, and surprisingly durable.

Isn't it funny how some books stay with you, not for the plot, but for the quiet mischief in their tone? I felt that way about Leacock’s playful teasing of old genres. It reminded me of a certain strange, wonderful book, Sartor Resartus: The Life and Opinions of Herr Teufelsdröckh — Reading Notes, which plays with its own serious absurdity. They both left a gentle smile I couldn’t quite shake.