The first time I fell for the Holmes series, I was around 10, a mediocre kid, a little bit late blooming. So it was legit to assume that in regard to complicatedness, the Holmes stories are not top notch - as I don't remember struggling between the lines to understand their plots, instead, I was engaged with ease. This assumption later was confirmed by good quality reviews from other readers - apparently the craze for the detective and his adventurous life significantly outweighs any intellectual games involved.
However, he soon told me himself.
Some well known psychologist stated childhood memories were always unusually long and tedious, because children did not have much control over daily arrangements, therefore as compensation they became very observant of their surroundings. I can neither prove nor disprove, but incapability is indeed what strikes me the most when I reminisce about my childhood. I remember the 10 year old girl confined in her cocoon, which was constituted of dull and insignificant routines. I also remember her secret guilty pleasure, which she would never share with any of her little friends.
As I remember, it was on the 4th of March.
At countless late nights, with moonlight and a warm blanket, with a counterfeit paperback Holmes underneath my pillow, I lay on my bed but was too reluctant to go asleep - my show was yet to start. Of course, my humble self always appeared in the fantasies. It would be an easy guess that sometimes I was Irene Adler 2.0, less dainty, but more determined in choosing love interest. But for most times I was Dr. Watson. Despite the mark “the woman” left on Holmes, she is no more than a fling in his meticulous emotional world. It is Watson, only Watson, the one who stands by his side each single time in each single battle, who unconditionally trusts and protects him, who shares his faith and tolerates all his intolerable habits … the one I wish I could become. How many times I flipped between the pages where Holmes rushed to Watson and checked his wound, revealing deepest care and concern; I imagined his facial expression, his voice, his arms that wrap around his friend's shoulder... I awkwardly recited Watson’s lines with emotion: “It was worth a wound, it was worth many wounds, to know the depth of loyalty and love which lay behind that cold mask … for the one and only time I caught a glimpse of a great heart as well as of a great brain. All my years of humble but single-minded service culminated in that moment of revelation.”
I rose somewhat earlier than usual, and found that Sherlock Holmes had not yet finished his breakfast.
I tried my best to invent cases of my own, bravely disregarding my lack of detective talent. Anyway, the beginning is what I remember the most clearly - as I stepped down from a first class carriage, with an elegant mask around my face, I set my eyes on a crusted plate that has "221B Baker Street" on it, and at this very moment, our detective and his loyal friend were watching and deducing me through their broad windows. Ignorant of anything akin to sex, the boldest move I could think of was a chivalrous and gentle hand-kissing.
I picked up a magazine from the table and attempted to pass the time with it, while my companion ate silently.
可是为了你，还会有你的。。。呃。。。咳咳，Dr w. 作者依然出手了。
That was all. That was my little secret late night show, bittersweet as I knew he was and would forever be fictional. It was so shabby, so humble, and it was so private that I would rather die than confess my fantasy to friends or parents.
One of the articles had a pencil mark at the heading, and I naturally began to run my eye over it.
"Private Holmes" looks oxymoronic. Probably even Sir Arthur Conan Doyle himself cannot claim possession of Holmes - bringing him back alive in the Empty House at readers' furious protest serves as a clear proof. But to me, Holmes is the one and only. My private Holmes led the clumsy me through that long, misty, bumpy and tempting journey to adolescence, marking an end for my age of innocence.
Its somewhat ambitious title was “The Book of Life,”
and it attempted to show how much an observant man might learn by an accurate and careful examination of all that came in his way.
The presence of Benedict Cumberbatch has become overwhelming. He is charming for a good reason, me thinks. Though at first glance I did not find him cute at all (over exposure to his pictures can make his face repugnant to outsiders), his deep, resonant voice totally melted me. It is undisputed that girls tend to relate a man's voice to his sexual maturity and more profound nature, consciously or unconsciously.
The reasoning was close and intense, but the conclusions appeared to me to be far-fetched and exaggerated.
Anyway, my point is thanks to Internet, there would be no private Holmes anymore. Young girls today are comfortably sharing their feelings together through fan communities - reading and writing fan fictions, photoshopping pictures, editing footages, exchanging all kinds of fan stuff. It is no longer guilty or private pleasure, but rather mass celebration. Even if a girl can resist the temptation and keep her crush to herself, she can’t help but realize there are millions of girls who harbor the exact same fascination, and this mere recognition can be mentality-changing. I am in no position to judge. It is just the way the world changes – Internet brings in new things and takes some other things away. Nostalgic? Maybe a little bit, about those late nights filled with unspoken wonder and joy.
The writer claimed by a temporary expression, a twitch of a muscle or a glance of an eye, to find out a man’s inner thoughts.
According to him, it was impossible to fool a man who has been trained in such observation and analysis.
His conclusions were very definite.
To the untrained, his results would appear very surprising.
“From a drop of water,” said the writer, “a logician could gather the possibility of an Atlantic or a Niagara without having seen or heard of one or the other.
So all life is a great chain, the nature of which is known whenever we are shown a single link of it.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
By a man’s finger nails, by his coat-sleeve, by his shoes, by his clothes, by his expression—by each of these things a man’s work is plainly revealed.”
“What nonsense!” I cried, throwing the magazine down on the table, “I never read such rubbish in my life.”
“What is it?” asked Sherlock Holmes.
Sherlock: For Holmes and Watson, the game is afoot
Post categories: bbc one, drama, sherlock
“This article,” I said, pointing at it with my egg spoon as I sat down to my breakfast.
Mark Gatiss | 10:50 UK time, Friday, 23 July 2010
“I see that you have read it, since you have marked it.
I still have the first Sherlock Holmes book I ever owned. It had a purple spine (the purple of one of Holmes' dressing gown, I liked to imagine), a Sidney Paget illustration on the front and a wonderful introduction which ended with the magical words, "I wish I were reading these stories for the first time."
I don’t deny that it is cleverly written. It bothers me though. It is not practical.
I can remember the frisson I felt then. I was reading them for the first time!
I should like to see him sit down in a third class carriage on the Underground, and figure out the profession of all the travelers.
Now, more than 30 years later it's sheer delight to bring a modern-day Sherlock to BBC One. It came about as a result of very pleasant chats with Steven Moffat as both of us travelled to and from Cardiff for various Doctor Who duties.
I would lay a thousand to one against him.”
It seems nicely fitting that it all started on a train. We're both huge fans of the original stories and the absolute copper-bottomed genius of Arthur Conan Doyle's writing.
“You would lose your money,” Sherlock Holmes remarked calmly.
It didn't take long, though, for us both to shyly admit that our favourite versions of the oft-told tales were the Basil Rathbone/Nigel Bruce films of the 1930s and 1940s. Particularly the ones where they brought them up to date.
“As for the article, I wrote it myself.”
This may sound like heresy but really it isn't. Although Steven and I are second to none in loving the flaring gas-lit atmosphere of a lovely old London, it felt as though Sherlock Holmes had become all about the trappings and not the characters.
“You!” “Yes, I have a natural talent both for observation and for deduction.
Also, the original stories are models of their kind. Incredibly modern, dialogue-driven, fast paced and short我私人的福尔摩斯，我太爱你了。! What better way to get back to the roots of these fantastic creations than to make Holmes and Watson living, breathing, modern men just as they had been originally?
The theories which I have expressed there, and which appear to you to be so absurd, are extremely practical—
Happily for us, the BBC were immediately excited at the idea of modern Sherlock Holmes.