Dear Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson

I have recently been obsessed with Sherlock Holmes. I cannot put my finger on exactly why I am so totally taken by this character, but at least I am not alone. SH does hold the record for the most adapted literary character. I was listening to Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat discuss Doyle's stories – and they said at the heart of these stories lies the friendship of Watson and Holmes, that very male* friendship as in it is very understated. The other thing that I believe makes these stories a joy is that Holmes is a genius, and his genius lies only in observing where other people only see. Doyle makes friendship and excellence accessible to us, no wonder we bite the bait.

In lots of ways, this is a returned obsession rather than a new one. I read in bed before going to sleep, and no matter how enjoyable, it is not a good idea – if the book is distressing I can't sleep, if the book is good I get impatient and I still can't sleep. To circumvent this problem I decided to only re-read books during the final year of high school. And there were two books I re-read  that year – one was the Complete Works of Sherlock Holmes and the other was a book of deep philosophy; both were great as lullabies. (and of both, I can barely remember a word!)

However, what made Sherlock Holmes fantastic in my life earlier is precisely what makes it quite ridiculous now. Then, I read because I wanted to read; now I want to read because there is so much I want to know about, form an opinion about. Getting obsessed with Holmes leaves me with little time to read the massive pile I have created with such eagerness.

Talking about which, can someone tell me if Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell is worth my time?    

 

*Gatiss' and Moffat's opinions, I can't say if I agree or not. For myself I can't say, I have grown up with wonderful brothers who love me, and beyond the fact that my heart brims up and I beam at them, there hasn't been a way I have expressed my love; and beyond the fact that I have told my Mum and Dad how useless they are, and completely ignored their big – brotherly advise, I haven't expressed my anger. I have failed to find a difference between how men become friends and how women become friends – so I can't say if I agree or disagree with the previously mentioned gentlemen.

This, that and the other

I am currently obsessed with BBC series Sherlock, and I have always loved the books - my favourite, incidentally has the least of Holmes and Watson, and is called the Valley of Fear.

I was previously being a maniac about the inheritance cycle, and you really can't but laugh out loud about the fact that the guy who could write interestingly about the politics and histories of at least 4 or 5 kinds of creatures, couldn't come up with a better name than a dragon with an 'e'!

Would you believe it that my niece and nephew figured out that people don't live in computer/tv screens before they figured out how to speak!

While I got married almost before I told my friends and acquaintances about it, i have at least had the dubious pleasure of seeing people react to the news of my impending divorce, hah!

and I am moving houses again, and that means I would have moved houses about - oh forget it, i have lost count - but again within 2.5 years! i will again be culling down my possessions and be off and away before you'd know it. where to now? 

Letters

The world, my dear lady and sir , is far too fast for me. No one has the patience to reply to rambling letters, or (who am i kidding) to even read them*.

as i have said previously, letters people wrote to their future self are pretty boring, they often reek of impatience; except when they don't - for then they are like amber to store perfectly an emotion felt, a lesson learnt, and they are beautiful.

the letters jrr wrote to others are much more interesting, the thought put in each of them is a thought thought by a kind and genius story teller. and i like story tellers best of all. for what is life if not a story, the point of the ups and downs is simply one, the story otherwise would be very boring. (to sit snug, with more of my kind, around a benevolent being, listening to a story!)

but we are talking about letter now, not stories, so here is a beautiful one that John Steinbeck wrote to his teen-aged son, Thom.

Please feel free to write to me with similar kindness.
Yours with love,
N

*not the most honest statement, but how is one to start a letter if not with a hyperbole to a perception?