Elementary, my dear Watson

Yesterday I had a flashback. To the time I was 10 or 11, and had just finished an abridged version of The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes. You know, that pocket-sized 'Classics' series, aimed at getting children interested in books? I was already interested in books (I think I had read all the Hardy Boys stories when I was in 3^rd or 4^th), but the one in question certainly caught my eye. So, consequent to some beseeching and imploring with my parents, I got my hands on the Complete Stories of Sherlock Holmes or some such, which contained all 56 short stories and 4 long ones. Unabridged, of course. It was a blissful read. My next major problem was that 10 days after I got the book, I'd already devoured it (it was during my summer holidays, and I was in Madras with nothing to do). I still remember jumping around then, saying I wanted to become a detective. This continued, if my memory serves me right, for a reasonably long time. My next major career decision was when I was 14, after reading Chromosome 6 by Robin Cook. At that point, it was obvious to me, for I had seen the light. I was destined to become a genetic engineer… Of course, today I'm neither. But nevertheless, those were glory days. I used to feel I was Superman (He-man is also a very applicable metaphor – I used to love that series and the sword used therein when I was 4-5 years old). After reading the Bible Code, I wondered where I could get my hands on the software the book mentioned, to check what it would unearth about me from the Torah. Funny days, too. Paradise lost and all that.

Sherlock Holmes was a brilliant invention of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's mind. He gripped the imagination of avid readers like no fictional character before. Of course, there were only two notable detectives in fiction before Holmes came along (Edgar Allan Poe's Dupin and Gaboriau's Monsieur Lecoq; Agatha Christie's Miss Marple and Hercule Poirot came much later). I've read of neither of Holmes' esteemed predecessors, but he does disparage their techniques and intelligence ever-so-slightly. So much for them. His popularity was unprecedented. The story of how he was literally brought back to life (dare I say poorly constructed pun intended? The most redundant two words in English ever, closely competing with "Don't laugh") is a very well-known one. And Sir Doyle wasn't the only one who resurrected him. His story has been adapted into numerous plays, television series, etc since. In fact, an intriguing tidbit about Holmes concerns the title of this blog post – 'Elementary, my dear Watson'. Although this phrase immediately conjures up an image of a man with a sharp countenance and a deerskin cap, smoking a pipe (Holmes, in case these 'clues' didn't give it away), it never really appeared in any of the stories as penned by Sir Doyle. In that sense, it is a misattribution (one cannot call it apocryphal though, since Holmes himself is, arguably, fictional). It did appear, however, in a later adaptation, and pretty much stuck.

The reason for this (extremely) labored journey back in time was a book I just finished reading yesterday (and started the day before – it was an incredibly easy read) – The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time, by Mark Haddon. For those you haven't been extremely devoted Holmes-ians, this is a line from the mystery Silver Blaze, a story about a missing race-horse. This is how the exchange goes. I've taken the liberty of embellishing the statements slightly for effect, given the near-total lack of context, and given the fact that I don't remember them phonographically.

A little while after our discussion, Holmes said, "Well, Watson, there was also the curious incident of the dog in the night-time". I replied, "But Holmes, the dog didn't do anything!" "That, my dear Watson", said Holmes, "was the curious incident."

And just like the story referenced in the title, this one too is a mystery – revolving around the murder of Wellington, a dog that was killed in the night-time. It is a great read, but not because the intricacies of the murder and its consequent solution are brought out exceedingly well. The story is as penned by Christopher Boone, a 15-year old autistic child. It made a reasonably deep impression on me, and also reminded me of To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee, a children's book of which they say, extremely accurately, 'a book that every adult should read'. I agree. If anyone hasn't read this book yet, it must go to the top of one's reading list (and if one doesn't have a reading list, this book merits the creation of one). I think what works for The Curious Incident… is the fact that it underlines everything we take for granted but shouldn't. The author very effectively forces the reader to see the world through the eyes (and pen) of a child who hates being touched, and thinks that seeing 5 yellow cars on the road is a premonition of an exceedingly bad day. He doesn't talk to strangers (good advice for anyone), and doesn't eat his food if two or more items are touching each other on his plate (not so good advice).

The boy's heroics as the book proceeds are indeed noteworthy, as are his skills in mathematics, which overcompensate for his deficiencies elsewhere. I think the book's success cannot be summarized better than by saying that when you're done, you don't pity the boy, you admire him for what he is, what he achieves and what he plans to become. When, at the end of the book, Chris realizes that he can 'do anything', you realize it with him. And with the benefit of an external frame of reference, maybe even more so. Few books have left me with as much of a proverbial lump in my throat as this one did.

Unfortunately, however, I don't think I'm going to read any other book by Mark Haddon. He's written some others, mainly for kids. A Spot of Bother, published in 2006, is more targeted at adults. But I'm not going to read it. I'm convinced that he wouldn't have been able to create the same magic as the first one. Just like Harper Lee, incidentally, who's not published much since To Kill … Maybe that's how it should be. Maybe, just like Sherlock Holmes, the magic was never really the author's prerogative.