Baskerville

It may not rank amongst the greatest of personal achievements, but it is with at least a modicum of pride that I can announce I have finally completed reading the entire collection of Sherlock Holmes stories, all fifty-six of them, plus the four novels. Admittedly, it would have been a more impressive feat had I managed it in the course of, say, a weekend instead of a large number of years (I can't remember how many exactly: more than five, less than ten, I think), but I have never been one for rushing voraciously through great works of literature, and hence polishing off one volume every year or so seemed like a sensible rate. It is best not to get too obsessive about this kind of thing.

I am not sure what I have learnt. Admittedly, I am in awe of Holmes's powers of deduction, but I doubt I could ever put them into practice myself. I cannot see myself making a success of being a consulting detective: I don't have a network of shady contacts in the criminal underworld (as far as I know) to help me, or even a large dressing-up box to furnish a variety of cunning disguises. And I do tend to keep well away from potential sources of conflict and peril. But, just in case, I should make sure I'm up to speed on identifying local mud samples. You never know when it may turn out useful.

"Exactly, Watson. Pathetic and futile. But is not all life pathetic and futile? Is not his story a microcosm of the whole? We reach. We grasp. And what is left in our hands at the end? A shadow. Or worse than a shadow – misery."