by Arthur Conan Doyle
120 pages
The British Library, 2011
fiction
Read in 2 days
Another review...
The British Library, 2011
fiction
Read in 2 days
Another review...
My Rating: ★★★★
"Gout or rheumatism, Doctor?" I asked.
Review: By page 19 I was hooked. One small passage I'd like to share made me want to finish this unfinished novel. But before I share the best part of the book allow me to share a few bad points. Honestly, I wouldn't consider them bad or negative points since this IS supposed to be Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's first novel so I'd expect it to seem a bit novice. There is very little sentence or story structure. He quickly jumps from thought to thought without putting those fillers we all grow to hate but realize we need when they are missing. The dialogue wouldn't be so bad if he didn't mention how a particular visitor arrived other than to have them start talking. And trying to figure out where the inner monologue starts and the two person dialogue ends is almost impossible. Otherwise I rather enjoyed reading it. He had quite a lot to say on varying topics like religion, children, neighbors, doctors, and so on.
Simply put, this story is about a man, John Smith, who has gout, rendering him unable to go anywhere for at least a week so it can heal. I can see where the idea of Sherlock Holmes may have stemmed from this restless character who's mind wanders onto different topics of interest rather quickly. He's also observant and rather witty. In any case, this is what one man does to pass the time till his foot is fully healed. Of course the story was never completed and I'm glad no one came along years later to attempt to complete his work for him. No one could write as he does, even in pretense. It is perfect as it is, completely unfinished, and totally enjoyable.
And now, onto the passage I found myself having read, and then reread, several times:
I confess to one little extravagance - and only one. You see those four squat oak cases, their well-stocked shelves line with rich brown leather stamped with gold. Those books are the collection of a lifetime. Run your eye over them. Petrarch, Ruskin, Boswell, Goethe, Tourguenieff, Richter, Emerson, Heine, Darwin, Winwood Reade, Tertullian, Balzac - truly an august and cosmopolitan company.
There should be a society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Books. I hate to see the poor patient things knocked about and disfigured. A book is a mummified soul embalmed in morocco leather and printer's ink instead of cerecloths and unguents. It is the concentrated essence of man. Poor Horatius Flaccus has turned to an impalpable powder by this time, but there is his very spirit stuck like a fly in amber, in that brown-backed volume in the corner. A line of books should make a man subdued and reverent. If he cannot learn to treat them with becoming decency he should be forced.
If a bibliophile House of Commons were to pass a 'Bill of the better preservation of books' we should have paragraphs of this sort under the headings of 'Police Intelligence' in the newspapers of the year 2000: 'Marylebone Police Court. Brutal outrage upon an Elzevir Virgil. James Brown, a savage-looking elderly man, was charged with cowardly attack upon a copy of Virgil's poems issued by the Elzevir press. Police Constable Jones deposed that on Tuesday evening about seven o'clock some of the neighbors complained to him of the prisoner's conduct. He saw him sitting at an open window with the book in front of him which he was dog-earing, thumb-marking and otherwise ill using. Prisoner expressed the greatest surprise upon being arrested. John Robinson, librarian of the casualty section of the British Museum, deposed to the book, having been brought in in a condition which could only have arisen from extreme violence. It was dog-eared in thirty-one places, page forty-six was suffering from a clean cut four inches long, and the whole volume was a mass of pencil - and finger - marks. Prisoner, on being asked for his defense, remarked that the book was his own and that he might do what he liked with it. Magistrate: "Nothing of the kind, sir! You wife and children are your own but the law does not allow you to ill treat them! I shall decree a judicial separation between Virgil and yourself, and condemn you to a week's hard labour." Prisoner was removed, protesting. The book is doing well and will soon be able to quit the museum.'
Okay, so maybe arresting someone for dog-earing a book will never happen, but a girl can dream can't she? I just love this passage because that is SO ME! I love my books as if they are my children and would not think twice to disown a friend who dares to dog-ear or smudge one page of any of the books I own. It's one of the main reasons why I proudly do not own a library card. And never will!
Summary: Before there was the astute detective Sherlock Holmes and his capable compatriot Watson, there was the opinionated Everyman John Smith. In 1883, when he was just twenty-three, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle wrote The Narrative of John Smith while he was living in Portsmouth and struggling to establish himself as both a doctor and a writer. He had already succeeded in having a number of short stories published in leading magazines of the day, such as Blackwood’s, All the Year Round, London Society, and the Boy’s Own Paper—but as was the accepted practice of literary journals of the time, his stories had been published anonymously. Thus, Conan Doyle knew that in order to truly establish his name as a writer, he would have to write a novel. That novel—the first he ever wrote and only now published for the first time—is The Narrative of John Smith.
Many of the themes and stylistic tropes of his later writing, including his first Sherlock Holmes story, A Study in Scarlet—published in 1887—can be clearly seen. More a series of ruminations than a traditional novel, The Narrative of John Smith is of considerable biographical importance and provides an exceptional window into the mind of the creator of Sherlock Holmes. Through John Smith, a fifty-year-old man confined to his room by an attack of gout, Conan Doyle sets down his thoughts and opinions on a range of subjects—including literature, science, religion, war, and education—with no detectable insecurity or diffidence. His writing is full of bravado.
Though unfinished, The Narrative of John Smith stands as a fascinating record of the early work of a man on his way to being one of the best-known authors in the world. This book will be welcomed with enthusiasm by the numerous Conan Doyle devotees.
To learn more about Sir Arthur Conan Doyle please visit his site.
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