Review: Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle

Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes by Arthur Conan Doyle.

I've had coffee this morning, which is probably as effective as cocaine is on Sherlock Holmes. Don't take my word on it though, because I've never done cocaine. Also, this collection, free from Kobo, lacked any of the habitual cocaine use. Why are we still on this point?

The point, dear reader, is that this collection showcases my favorite part of the canon: John Watson. It's his voice and the almost childlike, glad-to-be-here role that he takes at 221B Baker St which make these stories endearing. I'd read many of these before, which was not fortunate in that I would remember who the culprit was halfway through a story, making it a jarring experience. Also if I read more than one story in a sitting, I began to imagine how nice it would be to feed Sherlock to some manner of beast while John watched. They deserve it sometimes, the cocky bastards.

But watching Sherlock work has some intrigue, otherwise John wouldn't stick around, considering how he just takes the condescension, he knows there's a reward coming to him. Hoo-boy. As I said, the coffee.

Arthur Conan Doyle is a bit smarmy isn't he? I'm defining the word to mean something along the lines of as cock-sure of himself as Sherlock but also believes in fairies - even when he's run out of absinthe. Another thing I haven't tried so I can't assure you of making-you-believe-in-fairies, but I do know that Absinthe is sometimes known as 'the Green Fairy'.

The Absynth Quintet - The Flight of Green Fairy

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Sherlock Holmes is infuriating, but we love to see real conclusions drawn from impossible circumstances. Why do we love this? I'm sure Freud or Jung (or Nietzche, yuck) has weighed in on this, so I don't want to sound pretentious, but... I think it's three parts fantastical escapism, one part lust, and two parts god-envy.

This is why I usually drink tea.

Gutenburg edition.