Story: A Study in Emerald

Prompted by recommendations from my good friend, Lt. Whistleblower, I've been looking into the Sherlock Holmes stories in their various incarnations. Starting with last year's BBC series in three parts (Sherlock), which I loved and still try to rewatch whenever I have the flat to myself, I moved on to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's original stories. I've also seen the 2009 movie with Robert Downey Jr. and Jude Law. I'd been curious about it since it first came out, but that only goes to show that I should be more careful about letting my curiosity lead. I was so confused each time any of the main characters was referred to as "Holmes" or "Watson", because I couldn't see any connection with the characters I'm used to associating with those names, that it jolted me out of the plot. As the plot wasn't very engaging anyway, and I always lose track during action scenes, I never really got caught up in it, and I was left wondering about the sizeable fandom around this movie. I suppose that the inflow comes from a certain subset of Law's and Downey Jr.'s respective fan bases (a subset that likes slash and isn't familiar with Conan Doyle's stories).

The original Sherlock Holmes stories turned out not to be my kind of thing, either, but I'm glad that I gave them a chance. As with every book, film, TV series, or song whose presence towers over the rest of pop culture, going to the source and finding out what it's really about feels enlightening. You start getting the jokes rather than smiling politely at the explanation of them, and it's good to see that the familiar stereotypes haven't always been stereotypes, but were once fresh and new and unheard of. Conan Doyle's stories also made me think about thinking and reasoning, about the dichotomy between engineering and medicine, among other things, and about cultural influence on science. I'm trying to put those ideas into writing, but as yet it's just another incoherent list of thoughts in my folder of uncompleted blog posts.

Most of all, however, I'm glad I read A Study in Scarlet because it allows me to appreciate A Study in Emerald, by Neil Gaiman, even more than I would otherwise. This is a short and brilliant Sherlock Holmes - H. P. Lovecraft crossover, and I don't think any previous knowledge of Lovecraft is needed in order to appreciate it. Possibly it's just more unsettling to a reader who isn't familiar with Lovecraft's Old Ones. It has the economic wording of Conan Doyle's stories, the bottomless darkness of Lovecraft's, and the twists and the sharp sense of humour of Gaiman's works. Read it! Or, at least, follow the link and chuckle at the alternate-Victorian ads in the paper. 

Passover

A company that offers TV, internet and telephone deals, and that frequently spams us through the physical letter box, has put a note on the stairs, cheerfully announcing that their representatives will soon grace the inhabitants of our building with a visit. I.e., somebody will ring the doorbell, most probably at a really bad time (since every time is a bad time for door-to-door sellers, if you ask me), and be chummy with us against our will, trying to coax us into signing a new telephone deal. I wonder if something can be done to make them pass us over (a lamb's blood on the door post?).

I've been thinking of putting a no-thanks-in-advance note on our door, but it's hard to word it without seeming unfriendly. It's not the person who rings the bell with a forced smile (probably a temporary hired student who doesn't know better) I mind, it's the principle; how doorstep sales work because people are more reluctant to refuse a suggestion from a flesh-and-blood person than a voice on the phone or a note in the mail. It's such a repugnantly manipulative method, and I hate that the people who will really be the ones disturbing my evening, the people who are actually responsible, are anonymous and out of reach.

Solution, partially suggested by a friend: succinctly worded note on the door with a bribe of candy attached. That must be the way ahead.

People: Bored and Respectless Since Time Immemorial

I spent the best part of last week out of town. Questions put to the few residents I met about what to do in the evenings, and how they liked living there, elicited a kind of hopeless stare followed by a diplomatic but tepid reply, and I spent most of the evenings reading fanfic in my hotel room.

The hotel was a mixture of shabby and cosy and of humour intended and unintended. The owners ostentatiously aimed for a British flavour, with stuffed chairs, rickety little tables and flower-patterned crockery in the breakfast restaurant, and the napkins had "Fawlty Towers" printed on them. They also liked to use Fawlty Towers as the informal name of the hotel, and I wondered whether they had some kind of agreement with the copyright owner/s, or if John Cleese would sue them if he got wind of it.

Unfortunately, the "British" influences spilled over into a general overabundance of flowers, angels, and words of wisdom printed in frilly fonts. The tiny, rickety bedside table in my room was unusable, since the surface was taken up by a framed text on seizing the day, printed on pink paper. Fortunately, this was balanced by an ambition to preserve the original appearance of the hotel, which was built in the 1880s. The rooms had been refurbished, but in the corridors the carpets were threadbare, the stairs creaked, and the gold paint peeled.

It was actually very nice.

On my last evening I found my way to the cathedral. Old churches are always interesting; layer upon layer of architecture, local culture, art, and history. There was a little exhibition of different variations of the cross symbol, several tombstones, and a malicious-looking Green Man looking down from one of the highest vaults, but my favourite part of any church is the graffiti. There tends to be some, unless the interior has been cruelly touched up in the latest two centuries or so. 

So many people have been so bored here. People just like us, finding something to do in carving their name into the stone. Probably teenagers, not really reflecting on the fact that they were leaving a message to coming generations.

L.A.S., 1631. I imagine a boy in a lace collar and a heavy, square coat, abstractedly carving and carving, deeper and broader. He really took his time. Didn't anybody notice?

A last one that must have taken some time, dated April 1, 1645. Somehow, I always feel that exact dates give an additional feeling of reality to history, a connection to the people of the time. This person knew what day it was, and what year. Maybe he, too, kept writing the wrong year through the first weeks of each January.