(1907) Lovely book. Not sure what to call it. Essay? Memoir? Fireside causerie? Sir Arthur Conan Doyle writes as if you’re in his study and he’s going over his bookshelves with you, one bibliophile to another. It’s pure bliss.
Perhaps the best are his thumbnail portraits. They are often very moving, and worth rereading. Scott, quietly suffering massive debt. Johnson, the outcast savant who’d endured terrible privations. Fielding, who’d turned London from the most lawless city into the most lawful, and the dignity with which he faced death, as revealed in his Lisbon diary.
The eeriest passage is when thoughts of Melville cause Doyle to wonder about all the overlooked masterpieces out there—two decades before the rediscovery of Moby Dick:
“I have said that Omoo and Typee, the books in which the sailor Melville describes his life among the Otaheitans, have sunk too rapidly into obscurity. What a charming and interesting task there is for some critic of catholic tastes and sympathetic judgment to undertake rescue work among the lost books which would repay salvage!”
He had that right under his nose!
Ok, see below for his recommendations. I tried to list them as best I could. Though his tastes and mine don’t perfectly overlap, it’s still wreaked havoc on my reading list. Some of his favorites are:
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Macaulay’s essays and lays.
Ivanhoe (second best historical novel in English).
Quentin Durward (Scott’s next best perhaps). Also mentions “Wandering Willie's Tale.” Short story written in Scottish.
Devotes several pages to an author named George Borrow.
Liked Boswell better than Johnson.
For the greatest short story writers he names Poe, Stevenson, Bret Harte, Kipling (particularly “The Drums of the Fore and Aft," "The Man who Would be King," "The Man who Was," and "The Brushwood Boy”). Prefers, deprecatingly, Hawthorne’s son Julian to the father. Mentions Grant Allen’s “John Creedy.” Wells. Quiller-Couch’s sketch "Old Oeson" from Noughts and Crosses. Maupassant second only to Poe (see the great anecdote about “The Inn”). Metempsychosis by Macnish (see my review). “Talking of weird American stories,” Doyle gives a nod to Ambrose Bierce’s collection In the Midst of Life.
Of Poe he quotes from the fables “Silence” and “Shadow.” Favorites are Gold Bug and, of course, Rue Morgue. Can’t trace his style. Says it’s as if Hazlitt and De Quincy wrote fiction. Poe’s is “not altogether a healthy influence, perhaps. It turns the thoughts too forcibly to the morbid and the strange.” Like me, Doyle seems dumbstruck by how many genres Poe invented, or as he puts it, “His brain was like a seed-pod full of seeds which flew carelessly around, and from which have sprung nearly all our modern types of story.”
Says “…all pseudo-scientific Verne-and-Wells stories have their prototypes in the Voyage to the Moon, and the Case of Monsieur Valdemar.” The first is an 1827 novel by George Tucker.
Of Americans, and the hazards of being a writer: “They will end by being scheduled with the white-lead workers and other dangerous trades. Look at the really shocking case of the young Americans, for example. What a band of promising young writers have in a few years been swept away! There was the author of that admirable book, "David Harum"; there was Frank Norris, a man who had in him, I think, the seeds of greatness more than almost any living writer. His "Pit" seemed to me one of the finest American novels. He also died a premature death. Then there was Stephen Crane—a man who had also done most brilliant work, and there was Harold Frederic, another master-craftsman.”
“Esmond” (presumably Thackeray’s Henry Esmond) he describes as more perfect than Ivanhoe but boring in parts.
The Cloister and the Hearth: greatest novel ever, besides Tolstoy’s “Peace and War.”
Acknowledges Tristram Shandy but doesn’t care too much for it. Aside from that, and Vicar of Wakefield and Evelina, from the 18th c., “…there are only three authors who count, and they in turn wrote only three books each, of first-rate importance, so that by the mastery of nine books one might claim to have a fairly broad view of this most important and distinctive branch of English literature. The three men are, of course, Fielding, Richardson, and Smollett. The books are: Richardson's Clarissa Harlowe, Pamela, and Sir Charles Grandison; Fielding's Tom Jones, Joseph Andrews, and Amelia; Smollett's Peregrine Pickle, Humphrey Clinker, and Roderick Random.”
I was surprised there was hardly any mention of Defoe or Swift. But then he dates the novel to Richardson: “It is Richardson and not Fielding who is the father of the English novel, the man who first saw that without romantic gallantry, and without bizarre imaginings, enthralling stories may be made from everyday life, told in everyday language. This was his great new departure.”
“The Deserted Village." Poem by Goldsmith.
Meredith he basically calls a writer’s writer. Singles out Richard Feverel (third best Victorian novel after Reade’s and Vanity Fair).
For history: Gibbons, Marbot, Mercer, Napier, Wellington’s Men, Maxwell’s History of Wellington, and Siborne's Letters. Concerning Froissart, Monstrelet, and de Comines: “When you have read the three you have the best contemporary account first hand of considerably more than a century.” Hénault. Gives a long list of reading recommendations for the period of Louis XIV. Sad prediction: “So Froude was attacked. So also Macaulay in his day. But both will be read when the pedants are forgotten.” M'Carthy's History of Our Own Times. Lecky's History of England in the Eighteenth Century.
Parkman the greatest historian.
Loved Irving, especially Conquest of Granada. “No man wrote fresher English with a purer style.”
Henley’s Song of the Sword and Book of Verses. Quotes “Invictus,” but he really urges us to read Hospital Verses. “What! you have not read the ‘Hospital Verses!’” Henley, by the way, sounds like a larger-than-life figure, a Pan, a force of nature.
Meinhold’s Sidonia the Sorceress, and The Amber Witch, “in an excellent translation by Lady Wilde… I don't know where one may turn for a stranger view of the Middle Ages.”
Merejkowski’s The Forerunner, and The Death of the Gods. Historical fiction: Renaissance Italy and Ancient Rome, respectively. Masterpieces, though Doyle only read those two.
Trollope’s autobiography the best English autobiography—
Next to Pepys’ diary, that is. (None of this, however, is saying very much, according to Doyle, who belittled the English’s contribution to the form). But this diary sounds like a very enigmatic literary production. Doyle attributes its composition to a morbid tidiness of mind.
Knight’s Cruise of the Falcon. Travel writing. The old adventurous spirit “still lives, disguise it as you will with top hats, frock coats, and all prosaic settings. Perhaps even they also will seem romantic when centuries have blurred them.”
More sea adventures: Voyage of the Discovery in the Antarctic, by Captain Scott. Greely's Arctic Service. Bullen's Cruise of the Cachelot, and his Sea Idylls. Tom Cringle's Log. Two Years before the Mast. Stevenson's Wrecker, and Ebb Tide. “Clark Russell deserves a whole shelf for himself, but anyhow you could not miss out The Wreck of the Grosvenor.” Marryat’s Midshipman Easy, and Peter Simple. Typee. Omoo. Captains Courageous. London’s Sea Wolf. Nigger of the Narcissus.
Include all these in your library and “then you will have enough to turn your study into a cabin and bring the wash and surge to your ears, if written words can do it.”
Doyle’s candidates for undiscovered classics: Snaith's Broke of Covenden. Eight Days, by Forrest. Powell's Animal Episodes.
Science: Darwin’s Journal of the Voyage of the Beagle. Wallace’s Malay Archipelago. Samuel Laing. Myers' Human Personality (psychic research which poor Doyle believed would by now have formed a whole new branch of science).
Holmes' The Autocrat, The Poet, and The Professor at the Breakfast Table. “Never have I so known and loved a man whom I had never seen.” Even better than Lamb.
More Stevenson favorites: New Arabian Nights, Treasure Island, Kidnapped. Doyle read his stories when they were first published, uncredited, but knew they came from the same author by their prose alone. Ticonderoga “the best narrative ballad of the last century,” (so long as Coleridge’s Rime came from the 18th). And his immortal epitaph.
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Notes:
*Happy to see Doyle loved one of my favorite tunes, “Battle Hymn of the Republic.”
*Lists the ingredients that would make the Crusades the ideal topic for a novel.
*Cool story of the Vandals who vanished into North Africa.
*Lost settlement in Greenland story reminded me of Country of the Blind. Perhaps inspiration?
*Was friends with Robert Barr!
*Choir music dead in England. Blames reformation. “And yet it is consoling to know that the germ of the old powers is always there ready to sprout forth if they be nourished and cultivated.”
*There’s an actually good audiobook of this work on YouTube.
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More quotes:
“Let us suppose that we were suddenly to learn that Shakespeare had returned to earth… How eagerly we would seek him out! And yet we have him—the very best of him—at our elbows from week to week, and hardly trouble ourselves…”
“…life is too short to read originals, so long as there are good translations.”
On baggy English novels: “Digression and want of method and order are traditional national sins… Our sense of form is lamentably lacking.”
On the American Civil War: “…the most bloody war which the Anglo-Celtic race has ever waged.”
“A curious glimpse into the psychology of the writer of fiction is shown by the fact that [Scott] wrote two of his books—good ones, too—at a time when his health was such that he could not afterwards remember one word of them, and listened to them when they were read to him as if he were hearing the work of another man. Apparently the simplest processes of the brain, such as ordinary memory, were in complete abeyance, and yet the very highest and most complex faculty—imagination in its supreme form—was absolutely unimpaired. It is an extraordinary fact, and one to be pondered over. It gives some support to the feeling which every writer of imaginative work must have, that his supreme work comes to him in some strange way from without…”
Doyle uses his medical expertise to diagnose Shakespeare: “He died, I should judge, of some nervous disease; that is shown by the progressive degeneration of his signature. Probably it was locomotor ataxy, which is the special scourge of the imaginative man.”
Interesting to see how Doyle viewed the propriety—not to say the prudery and sanctimony—of his age: “And then there is the vexed question of morals. Surely in talking of this also there is a good deal of inverted cant among a certain class of critics. The inference appears to be that there is some subtle connection between immorality and art, as if the handling of the lewd, or the depicting of it, were in some sort the hallmark of the true artist. It is not difficult to handle or depict. On the contrary, it is so easy, and so essentially dramatic in many of its forms, that the temptation to employ it is ever present. It is the easiest and cheapest of all methods of creating a spurious effect. The difficulty does not lie in doing it. The difficulty lies in avoiding it. But one tries to avoid it because on the face of it there is no reason why a writer should cease to be a gentleman, or that he should write for a woman's eyes that which he would be justly knocked down for having said in a woman's ears. But ‘you must draw the world as it is.’ Why must you? Surely it is just in selection and restraint that the artist is shown. It is true that in a coarser age great writers heeded no restrictions, but life itself had fewer restrictions then. We are of our own age, and must live up to it.”
“The fact is that Borrow had one dangerous virus in him—a poison which distorts the whole vision—for he was a bigoted sectarian in religion, seeing no virtue outside his own interpretation of the great riddle. Downright heathendom, the blood-stained Berserk or the chaunting Druid, appealed to his mind through his imagination, but the man of his own creed and time who differed from him in minutiae of ritual, or in the interpretation of mystic passages, was at once evil to the bone…” [Replace religion with politics and this sounds like many people I know].
“…to be charitable to the uncharitable is surely the crown of virtue.”
“And what a latent power there must be in this French nation which could go on pouring out the blood of its sons for twenty-three years with hardly a pause!”
“There are some authors from whom I shrink because they are so voluminous that I feel that, do what I may, I can never hope to be well read in their works. Therefore, and very weakly, I avoid them altogether. There is Balzac, for example, with his hundred odd volumes. I am told that some of them are masterpieces and the rest pot-boilers, but that no one is agreed which is which. Such an author makes an undue claim upon the little span of mortal years. Because he asks too much one is inclined to give him nothing at all.”
“Neither our numbers, nor our wealth, nor the waters which guard us can hold us safe if once the old iron passes from our spirit. Barbarous, perhaps—but there are possibilities for barbarism, and none in this wide world for effeminacy.”
On trying to be a specialist: “These dreary details are the prickly bushes in that enchanted garden, and you are foolish indeed if you begin your walks by butting your head into one. Keep very clear of them until you have explored the open beds and wandered down every easy path. For this reason avoid the text-books, which repel, and cultivate that popular science which attracts.”
“Show me a picture without an artist, show me a bust without a sculptor, show me music without a musician, and then you may begin to talk to me of a universe without a Universe-maker…”