Some time ago, perhaps measured in half decades, my wife and I started reading the Sherlock Holmes books and stories of Arthur Conan Doyle aloud. We bogged down about halfway through, mainly due to difficulty reading the somewhat archaic language aloud. Years later I finished them on my own. So, sometime in 2010, on a trip to Barnes & Noble, I was pleased to find on the mark-down table Arthur Conan Doyle: A Life in Letters. How could I not snatch up the beautiful looking hardback? I was reading Doyle, and I love reading letters and biographies.

At that time I made a marker for each book I read out of scrap paper and recorded my reading progress; I still do that sometimes. I started reading on 24 March 2010. After three days the next entries are in August 2010, which took me up to page 82. A gap in the entries doesn’t tell me when I read, but when I picked this up in April this year, I started reading at page 359. I think I read those other pages back in 2010.

That I put this book down for some years is not indicative of the enjoyment I derived from it. As I said I love reading collections of letters. This one was no exception.

I don’t know how many of Doyle’s letters have been collected. Since most of his literary life was in the days before telephone, you would think he had a lot of letters—to publishers, editors, other writers, investment advisors, etc. For this book, the three editors chose to mainly use letters between Doyle and his mother. She seems to have kept all that he sent her. They are valuable in terms of understanding Doyle’s life as a writer, for he told her what he was working on, how it was received by publishers, how new works were received by the public, etc.

The early years were a struggle. Doyle studied to be a doctor and became one, though the medical profession in the 1880s-1890s was quite different than today. Learning about that was informative. While he was struggling to make a living from medicine he was also struggling to become a writer. Two careers, simultaneous struggles. Doyle’s descriptions of that were fascinating.

We know now that his main success was in writing, with the Sherlock Holmes stories being his biggest hit. Knowing little about Doyle except for Holmes, I was amazed at how many other works he wrote, most having nothing to do with the detective genre. Maybe Doyle had a bit of Genre Focus Disorder long before I created the term. It seemed to work for him, however, as many of his other books/stories met with success.

Doyle tired of Holmes and “killed him” at the falls. Public demand was so great, however, that Doyle found a way to bring him back, with stories that preceded his struggle at the falls with Moriarty, and then showing that he hadn’t actually died. Close to half the Holmes stories were written after Doyle wanted to move on to something else.

The editors did a good job of using their words to illustrate what the letters were saying. It was a good mix of Doyle’s words and the editors’ commentary. I would have liked to have had more correspondence than just the letters to his mother. The book had a few others, but well over 95 percent of the 684 pages were Doyle to his mother. Adding letters to others would have been interesting, but would also have changed the nature of the book.

If you like Arthur Conan Doyle, if you like Sherlock Holmes, if you like letters, this book is well worth reading. Since I got it from the bargain table, I don’t know that it’s in print any more, but you could try to find it.

The big question is, will I keep this? I have so many books, and I’m far enough along in this earthly life that I really should get rid of all books I don’t believe I will read again. I’m not sure why I would re-read this one. Well, maybe to re-read some of the early years struggles, and what he wrote about creating his most famous character.

Or maybe just so that my collection of books of letters is more complete. There, I’ve talked myself into it. For now it goes back on the shelf.

Many years ago I began reading Arthur Conan Doyle: A Life In Letters. I picked that up at Barnes and Noble, off the bargain table, and immediately began reading it. But, as way so often leads on to way, I got a couple of hundred pages in then set it aside. This months I finally finished it. From 2010 to 2019 is a long time to read a book.

I’ll be doing a report on that book, but not today. In it Doyle mentioned in a letter that he wrote a book of literary essays. That sounded interesting to me. Coming from 1907 it would be in the public domain, so I looked for it and found it. Through the Magic Door was published in 1908. it consists of a discussion, not strictly about authors, but about books on Conan Doyle’s bookshelf. This was a favorite bookshelf, I assume, one that had his favorite books on it. In this it differs from other books of literary essays, which at that time tended to concentrate on the authors, not on their books.

I obtained this at no cost on Google Play and put all else aside and began the book. The opening lines drew me right in.

I care not how humble your bookshelf may be, nor how lowly the room which it adorns. Close the door of that room behind you, shut off with it all the cares of the outer world, plunge back into the soothing company of the great dead, and then you are through the magic portal into that fair land whither worry and vexation can follow you no more. You have left all that is vulgar and all that is sordid behind you. There stand your noble, silent comrades, waiting in their ranks.

This is a wonderful opening. The book at hand almost lived up to it. Doyle starts out with his Macaulay book, his English history. This was his largest work and his last, actually not being completed. I’ve tried to read it but was put off by it, most probably the dated language and style. Doyle was writing only five or so decades after it was published, so it was much fresher to that era.

Macaulay’s essays also find space in Doyle’s book. These I’ve had more success with. I’m far from finishing them, but the ones I’ve read have held my interest and informed me. That’s good enough praise for things written in the 1820s and 1830s.

After this, the further you get into Magic Door, Doyle seems to degenerate. From entire chapters on one author he changes over to entire chapters covering entire shelves. He rushed through descriptions of books by author’s I’ve never heard of. It was good to hear about them, but Doyle didn’t give me enough to make me want to go out and find and read them. Pity. I’m sure they would be good to read, but I just don’t have enough to draw me to them.

Through the Magic Door was good. Had I this book in hard copy, I believe I would keep it and note it as one to be read again in the future. Doyle is a good writer. This volume is a good companion to Sherlock Holmes and, perhaps, other of Doyle’s writings I hope someday to pick up.