My Life as a Mystery Lover

This is the essay that I abandoned half-way through the word count. Each paragraph still has some merit, but it wasn't working as a whole.

The Complete Works of Sherlock Holmes by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle fills ¬1,122 pages of a two-volume 24-centimeter edition. It is comprised of four novels and fifty-six short stories, all unabashedly starring the classic sleuth of indomitable intellect. One ramshackle copy of the Complete Works resides on the second-from-the-bottom shelf of the mystery row in the tiny Fillmore Library. When I was fourteen the librarian straight-faced requested, “You will let me know when you have read every book in this library, won’t you?” Smiling assent, I loaded my tottering check-out pile into my left arm and spent the seven-minute walk home balancing it with my right as I pondered which delicacy to inhale first.

My childhood appetite for reading was insatiable. During sixth grade, my one year in public school, the teacher worried about my habit of occasionally reading straight through our 55 minute recess. I labeled him category number one: “Concerned with Social Skills.” Category number two was simply “Impressed,” which was gratifying yet disconcerting because it created more fodder for category number one. My parents, who taught me to read by age four, laughed off the comments from both categories. They knew I was perfectly capable of long-legged racing the other kids to the edges of our imaginary kingdoms.

After years of sauntering among genres, it happened: I fell in love with mystery. But I was no flighty debutante, traipsing through the library shelves and lingering with whichever mystery cover looked most alluring. Rather, I was captivated by a thin, graying, eagle-nosed man of vision. Yes, I loved Sherlock Holmes for his mind. Observation and deduction were his creed, and it was his reliance on science and logic that made him a superhero in my eyes. Holmes taught me that the mind is like an attic to be stored neatly with particular knowledge of use or to be obstacle course cluttered with indiscriminate factoids and blurbs. In arranging my mind with his exploits, I created a shrine. Anyone who could locate a crook from a soil sample or identify a profession from a scrap of handwriting deserved some adulation. Holmes always explained his methods in a denouement, but he never anticipated that his fans would or even could rise to his monumental heights.

Holmes was the Superman of Victorian London. His cases, which were ostensibly chronicled by his faithful sidekick Dr. John Watson, took London by storm in newspaper serials published from 1887-1927. When Holmes perished in the act of destroying his nemesis Professor Moriarty in 1893, a seven-year surge of pleading persuaded the author to resurrect him in what has ironically become the most well-known story, The Hound of the Baskervilles. Holmes style of sleuthing set the foundation for the mystery genre and he remains an integral icon of British culture. Even today the computer system used by British law enforcement is respectfully named Home Office Large Major Enquiry System – or HOLMES.

Transition needed. The Complete Works of Holmes is too large in size to transport as an antidote to boredom and furthermore brooks no interruptions. Like Holmes, his admirers must be homebodies when not saving the world. There is a best time for reading of Holmes. For a homeschooler in Southern California, this is on dark, preferably rainy afternoons post-Algebra. When the climate does not emulate the fairy-tale fog of London, evenings may be used provided there is cocoa present and that at least two-thirds of the body is hemmed by a close-wrapped blanket.

At the beginning of our relationship, a dictionary was a necessary third wheel. Every three pages or so, I had to update my lexicon to incorporate Victorian English. Twitterpated, I found this an endearing indication of education and culture. After reading through the entire collection once, I put the dictionary aside and simply enjoyed the stories even though I already knew the answers. It was like the tenth date after the demographics and favorites are old news and she is able to notice that he laughs with eyes closed when he’s truly amused and strangely sits straighter when he’s tired. I realized then that Holmes was more than “the most perfect reasoning and observing machine that the world has seen” as described by Watson in A Scandal in Bohemia. He was an unashamed champion of the underdog, an able psychologist, an ardent patriot, an acclaimed scientist and scholar, and a loyal friend. He was also a neurotic druggie between cases (though he eventually conquered this vice), incapable of verbalizing his admittedly rare emotions, and an understandable victim of egotism.

Needs transition. Holmes explained his success when remonstrating Watson in The Sign of Four: “How often have I said to you that when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth?” For hundreds of Holmesian fans worldwide, it is impossible that Holmes is not real. The improbable truth is that Sherlock and his bumbling biographer Watson truly lived in London in the late 1800’s and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle was their inept literary agent. This is known as “The Great Game,” in which The Complete Works of Sherlock Holmes is the “Canon” whose genius is reflective of Holmes and whose inconsistencies are simply Watson’s lapses. The Sherlock Holmes Society in London, founded in 1934 and resumed after WWII in 1951, boasts over 1,000 members who meet regularly for conversation and special events centered on the Baker Street sleuth. It is open to anyone with “an interest in Sherlock Holmes and his world, and a willingness to play the game.” Its American cousin, The Baker Street Irregulars in New York City was also started in 1934. More about this.

After reading through the collection straight through twice with numerous jaunts on an intermittent basis, I realized that our relationship was no longer growing. Unwilling to play games, I moved on.