Reading Sherlock (Again)

Favorite bits.
In order.
As I read them.
For my own sake.
It's hardly exciting.
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THIS BLOG IS CURRENTLY INACTIVE. I WAS BORED WITH WRITING EVERYTHING OUT. MAY FINISH NEXT TIME I READ THROUGH.

Cha cha cha

His eyes kindled and a slight flush sprang into his thin cheeks. For an instant the veil had lifted upon his keen, intense nature, but for an instant only. When I glanced again his face had resumed that red-Indian composure which had made so many regard him as a machine rather than a man.

The Crooked Man, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

I’ve just queued The Reigate Puzzle bits and am currently suffering from extreme feels. This is possibly my favourite story of all time. I resisted just posting the entire story, but if you haven’t read it lately… go forth.

Augh it’s so perfect. 

Speaking professionally, it was admirably done,” cried I, looking in amazement at this man who was forever confounding me with some new phase of his astuteness.

The Reigate Puzzle, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

It is of the highest importance in the art of detection to be able to recognize, out of a number of facts, which are incidental and which vital. Otherwise your energy and attention must be dissipated instead of being concentrated.

The Reigate Puzzle, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

Near the foot of the bed stood a dish of oranges and a carafe of water. As we passed it Holmes, to my unutterable astonishment, leaned over in front of me and deliberately knocked the whole thing over. The glass smashed into a thousand pieces and the fruit rolled about into every corner of the room.
“You’ve done it now, Watson,” said he coolly. “A pretty mess you’ve made of the carpet.”
I stooped in some confusion and began to pick up the fruit, understanding for some reason my companion desired me to take the blame upon myself. The others did the same and set the table on its legs again.
“Hullo!” cried the inspector, “where’s he got to?”
Holmes had disappeared.

The Reigate Puzzle, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

Mr. Holmes is walking up and down in the field outside,” said he. “He wants us all four to go up to the house together.”
“To Mr. Cunningham’s?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What for?”
The inspector shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t quite know, sir. Between ourselves, I think Mr. Holmes has not quite got over his illness yet. He’s been behaving very queerly, and he is very much excited.”
“I don’t think you need alarm yourself,” said I. “I have usually found that there was method in his madness.”
“Some folk might say there was madness in his method,” muttered the inspector.

The Reigate Puzzle, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

If it’s a local villain there should not be much difficulty in running him down,” said Holmes with a yawn. “All right, Watson, I don’t intend to meddle.”
“Inspector Forrester, sir,” said the butler, throwing open the door.
The official, a smart, keen-faced young fellow, stepped into the room. “Good-morning, Colonel,” said he. “I hope I don’t intrude, but we hear that Mr. Holmes of Baker Street is here.”
The colonel waved his hand towards my friend, and the inspector bowed.
“We thought that perhaps you would care to step across, Mr. Holmes.”
“The fates are against you, Watson,” said he, laughing. “We were chatting about the matter when you came in, Inspector. Perhaps you can let us have a few details.” As he leaned back in his chair in the familiar attitude I knew that the case was hopeless.

The Reigate Puzzle, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

Holmes grunted from the sofa.
“The county police ought to make something of that,” said he; “why, it is surely obvious that– –”
But I held up a warning finger.
“You are here for a rest, my dear fellow. For heaven’s sake don’t get started on a new problem when your nerves are all in shreds.”
Holmes shrugged his shoulders with a glance of comic resignation towards the colonel, and the talk drifted away into less dangerous channels.

The Reigate Puzzle, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

Even the triumphant issue of his labours could not save him from reaction after so terrible an exertion, and at a time when Europe was ringing with his name and when his room was literally ankle-deep with congratulatory telegrams I found him a prey to the blackest depression. Even the knowledge that he had succeeded where the police of three countries had failed, and that he had outmanoeuvred at every point the most accomplished swindler in Europe, was insufficient to rouse him from his nervous prostration.

The Reigate Puzzle, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

Our chambers were always full of chemicals and of criminal relics which had a way of wandering into unlikely positions, and of turning up in the butter-dish or in even less desirable places. But his papers were my great crux. He had a horror of destroying documents, especially those which were connected with his past cases, and yet it was only once in every year or two that he would muster energy to docket and arrange them; for, as I have mentioned somewhere in these incoherent memoirs, the outbursts of passionate energy when he performed the remarkable feats with which his name is associated were followed by reactions of lethargy during which he would lie about with his violin and his books, hardly moving save from the sofa to the table. Thus month after month his papers accumulated until every corner of the room was stacked with bundles of manuscript which were on no account to be burned, and which could not be put away save by their owner. One winter’s night, as we sat together by the fire, I ventured to suggest to him that, as he had finished pasting extracts into his commonplace book, he might employ the next two hours in making our room a little more habitable. He could not deny the justice of my request, so with a rather rueful face he went off to his bedroom, from which he returned presently pulling a large tin box behind him. This he placed in the middle of the floor, and, squatting down upon a stool in front of it, he threw back the lid. I could see that it was already a third full of bundles of paper tied up with red tape into separate packages.
“There are cases enough here, Watson,” said he, looking at me with mischievous eyes. “I think that if you knew all that I had in this box you would ask me to pull some out instead of putting others in.”
“These are the records of your early work, then?” I asked. “I have often wished that I had notes of those cases.”
“Yes, my boy, these were all done prematurely before my biographer had come to glorify me.” He lifted bundle after bundle in a tender, caressing sort of way. “They are not all successes, Watson,” said he. “But there are some pretty little problems among them.

The Musgrave Ritual, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

An anomaly which often struck me in the character of my friend Sherlock Holmes was that, although in his methods of thought he was the neatest and most methodical of mankind, and although also he affected a certain quiet primness of dress, he was none the less in his personal habits one of the most untidy men that ever drove a fellow-lodger to distraction. Not that I am in the least conventional in that respect myself. The rough-and-tumble work in Afghanistan, coming on the top of natural Bohemianism of disposition, has made me rather more lax than befits a medical man. But with me there is a limit, and when I find a man who keeps his cigars in the coal-scuttle, his tobacco in the toe end of a Persian slipper, and his unanswered correspondence transfixed by a jack-knife into the very centre of his wooden mantelpiece, then I begin to give myself virtuous airs. I have always held, too, that pistol practice should be distinctly an open-air pastime; and when Holmes, in one of his queer humours, would sit in an armchair with his hair-trigger and a hundred Boxer cartridges and proceed to adorn the opposite wall with a patriotic V. R. done in bullet-pocks, I felt strongly that neither the atmosphere nor the appearance of our room was improved by it.

The Musgrave Ritual, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

I don’t know how you manage this, Mr. Holmes, but it seems to me that all the detectives of fact and of fancy would be children in your hands. That’s your line of life, sir, and you may take the word of a man who has seen something of the world.’
“And that recommendation, with the exaggerated estimate of my ability with which he prefaced it, was, if you will believe me, Watson, the very first thing which ever made me feel that a profession might be made out of what had up to that time been the merest hobby.

The Gloria Scott, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

You never heard me talk of Victor Trevor?” he asked. “He was the only friend I made during the two years I was at college. I was never a very sociable fellow, Watson, always rather fond of moping in my rooms and working out my own little methods of thought, so that I never mixed much with the men of my year. Bar fencing and boxing I had few athletic tastes, and then my line of study was quite distinct from that of the other fellows, so that we had no points of contact at all. Trevor was the only man I knew, and that only through the accident of his bull terrier freezing on to my ankle one morning as I went down to chapel.
“It was a prosaic way of forming a friendship, but it was effective. I was laid by the heels for ten days, and Trevor used to come in to inquire after me. At first it was only a minute’s chat, but soon his visits lengthened, and before the end of the term we were close friends. He was a hearty, full-blooded fellow, full of spirits and energy, the very opposite to me in most respects, but we had some subjects in common, and it was a bond of union when I found that he was as friendless as I. Finally he invited me down to his father’s place at Donnithorpe, in Norfolk, and I accepted his hospitality for a month of the long vacation.

The Gloria Scott, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

You never heard me talk of Victor Trevor?” he asked. “He was the only friend I made during the two years I was at college.

The “Gloria Scott”, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

I am afraid that I rather give myself away when I explain,” said he. “Results without causes are much more impressive.

The Stock-Broker’s Clerk, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle