The detective in literature is hardly more than fifty years old, but already he is passing into decay. He has enjoyed extraordinary popularity, and may even claim to be the only person equally loved by statesmen and by errand boys. His old achievements enthrall as ever. But he makes no new conquests. ... From henceforth he retires to limbo with the dodo and the District Railway’s lines. He carries with him the regret of a civilised world.You will find the entire piece here.
Saturday, September 23, 2023
A Rather Rushed Judgment
The mystery-genre history blog Ontos features a wonderful, but wildly premature article announcing the decline and fall of the fictional sleuth—in 1905! Originally published in an English magazine called The Academy, it was later reprinted in Howard Haycroft’s The Art of the Mystery Story (1946). That anonymously penned piece opines:
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