Arthur Conan Doyle Quotes

British writer and physician (1859–1930)

Add quote

Sir Arthur Ignatius Conan Doyle (May 22 1859 – July 7 1930) was a British writer and physician, most famous as the creator of the character Sherlock Holmes.

From: Wikiquote (CC BY-SA 4.0)

Birth Name: Arthur Ignatius Conan Doyle

Native Name: Sir Arthur Ignatius Conan Doyle

Alternative Names: Sir A. Conan Doyle • Arthur Conan, Sir Doyle • Sir Arthur Conan Doyle • Conan Doyle

From Wikidata (CC0)

It is easy to be wise after the event.

"Am dining at Goldini's Restaurant, Gloucester Road, Kensington. Please come at once and join me there. Bring with you a jemmy, a dark lantern, a chisel, and a revolver. S. H." It was a nice equipment for a respectable citizen to carry through the dim, fog-draped streets.

The past and the present are within my field of inquiry, but what a man may do in the future is a hard question to answer.

There is a soul-jealousy that can be as frantic as any body-jealousy.

...I cannot live without brain-work. What else is there to live for? Stand at the window here. Was ever such a dreary, dismal, unprofitable world? See how the yellow fog swirls down the street and drifts across the dun-colored houses. What could be more hopelessly prosaic and material? What is the use of having powers, doctor, when one has no field upon which to exert them? Crime is commonplace, existence is commonplace, and no qualities save those which are commonplace have any function upon earth.

I have taken to living by my wits.

It is fortunate for this community that I am not a criminal.

The best way of successfully acting a part is to be it.

My horror at his crimes was lost in my admiration at his skill.

You yourself may not be luminous, but you are a conductor of light.

You know, Watson, I don't mind confessing to you that I have always had an idea that I would have made a highly efficient criminal.

Even the best of us are thrown off some- times.

Some people's affability is more deadly than the violence of coarser souls.

To his eyes all seemed beautiful, but to me a tinge of melancholy lay upon the countryside, which bore so clearly the mark of the waning year, Yellow leaves carpeted the lanes and fluttered down upon us as we passed, The rattle of our wheels died away as we drove through drifts of rotting vegetation — sad gifts, as it seemed to me, for Nature to throw before the carriage of the returning heir of the Baskervilles.

When a man writes on a wall, his instinct leads him to write above the level of his own eyes.