Arkham House began not with a business plan but with a letter. August Derleth, reading Howard Wandrei's news of H. P. Lovecraft's death while heading into the marshes near Sauk City, sat at a railroad trestle and began planning a memorial collection. That afternoon's resolve, recounted in the opening pages, sets the tone for this history: a blend of personal recollection, practical frustration, and quiet determination. Derleth narrates the early rejections from Scribner's and Simon & Schuster, the decision to publish under their own imprint, and the financial improvisation that followed. The narrative voice is that of a working writer and editor, not a detached chronicler, and the prose moves between anecdote and inventory.
From a Railroad Trestle to an Imprint
Derleth's voice is candid about the obstacles: Lovecraft's obscurity, the public's resistance to short story collections, and the dog-eared, nearly illegible manuscripts Lovecraft himself submitted. The tone is wry but not bitter. When he writes that he and Wandrei were impecunious writers—'how rare is the writer who is not!'—the aside reveals a dry humor that surfaces occasionally. The section closes with the decision to advertise for advance subscriptions, a move that would fund the first book, The Outsider and Others.
The Bibliography as a Record of Taste
The print runs are revealing: The Travelling Grave by Hartley sold 2,047 copies; The Web of Easter Island by Wandrei sold 3,068; Roads by Quinn sold 2,137. These numbers, modest by trade standards, indicate a niche but loyal readership. Derleth's editorial commentary, mentioned in the contents but not excerpted here, presumably framed each issue. The bibliography's dry format—title, author, date, pages, price, copies—belies the care behind each selection. It is a record of a small press that survived by matching its ambitions to its audience.
The Voice of the Small Press
There is no attempt to inflate the significance of Arkham House. Derleth acknowledges that Lovecraft wrote 'in a vein for which there has never been too large an audience.' The book's value lies in its specificity: the names of banks, the amounts of loans, the number of copies printed. These details ground the narrative in material reality. The bibliography, occupying much of the text, shifts the pace from anecdote to data, but the two sections together create a portrait of a publisher who was also a writer, and who understood that the survival of a small press depended on both passion and accounting.
Derleth's history is best read as a companion to the books it describes. The bibliography invites browsing; the narrative rewards attention to its small, concrete details. Readers interested in the economics of small-press publishing will find the print runs and subscription models instructive. Those drawn to the personal story will find a portrait of a writer who turned grief into an imprint. The book does not argue for Arkham House's importance; it simply shows the work.
I finished the Derleth book feeling like I’d sat beside someone sorting through old letters—each one a small weight of history. That same quiet intimacy surfaces when I slowly page through the Catalogue Of Linguistic Manuscripts In The Library Of The Bureau Of Ethnology. (1881 N 01 / 1879-1880 (Pages 553-578)) — Background and Themes, where every preserved word feels like a hand held out from another time, still patient.