I love Sherlock Holmes. I think that Conan Doyle’s portrayal of London’s most famous fictional detective are some of the most fun and yet also most artful works of detective fiction ever written. The only pity is that there aren’t more of them.
For fun, I picked up a copy of New Sherlock Holmes Adventures, edited by Mike Ashley. I’ve been reading them over the past few days, and I’m sad to reveal that the absolute best of them pale in comparison to the worst of the originals by Conan Doyle. You’ll find all sorts of stories which are pale imitations of stories conveyed with greater impact by Doyle, stories which detail Holmes interacting with famous characters like H.G. Wells (in a plot line which more properly belongs to the world of science fiction), and stories in which Holmes finds radium in an old funeral barrow. Unlike the artful work of Conan Doyle, the plot lines are either obvious or pulled out of the aether as if by magic, and none are satifying.
A complete waste of time. I hardly ever sell books, but this one is going to Goodwill.