Time to get past Watson's "marriage"

 "I had seen little of Holmes lately. My marriage had drifted us away from each other. My own complete happiness, and the home-centered interests which rise up around the man who finds himself master of his own establishment, were sufficient to absorb all my attention, while Holmes, who loathed every form of society with his whole Bohemian soul, remained in our lodgings in Baker Street . . ."

-- John Watson, "A Scandal in Bohemia"

If one reads much Sherlockian chronology, which I do not advise if one wants to stay awake and alert, one sees a lot of excuses for Watson saying it is autumn when the writer thinks it wasn't, or that it was October when the writer thinks it's April. They come up with all sorts of flips and flops just to make Watson's marriage make sense, when the true fraud is obvious and blatant: the marriage fraud.

And nowhere is that fraud more evident than the paragraph above. It's practically Watson trying to convince us of his heterosexuality after an awkward moment at the ballet. 

"My own complete happiness" -- know any real husbands who use that phrase?

"Master of his own establishment" -- and if he was using the "complete happiness" line to placate his wife, would he then follow it with a declaration of household mastery?

And then there's that thing about Holmes's "Bohemian soul" in a story entitled "A Scandal in Bohemia," where Watson shows a Hercules of a man dressed for the Met Gala declaring himself the "king of Bohemia." European bohemianism was  an artist or writer seceding from conventionality in both life and art, by its very Victorian definition, and in that paragraph, John Watson is trying very hard to say, "I am a conventional man, living a conventional life, with house and home and wife." (That last part is just because Paul Thomas Miller's them to The Watsonian Weekly echoes in my head a lot.)

And yet, he betrays himself . . . oooo, how he betrays himself. 

After that whole trumped-up business about his complete happiness and his "home-centered interests," where does Holmes remain?

". . .  in our lodgings in Baker Street."

And there it is. As much as Watson fusses over what a happy married home he has (something barely referred to elsewhere), he is somehow still lodging with Sherlock Holmes on Baker Street. 

One case, Watson's supposed wife is away visiting her mother. Later that year, Watson is supposedly proposing to the orphan Mary Morstan after just a few interactions. Personally, I'm getting just a little tired of Watson's need to tell us he's "experienced" women of three continents. Name some damn names, Watson! (Especially after you're supposedly married to a woman.)

But I suppose the good doctor will be vexing me with his shenanigans for many years to come, despite any protests upon my part. It is plainly keeping me from the "complete happiness" that marriage provides, as well as being full master of my own establishment.

But at least, you know, I know where our lodgings are.

Sherlockiana's Newsletter Nineties

 Last week I set about cleaning and sorting some of the banker's boxes of Sherlockian stuff I have piled in the basement, and specifically got into sorting Sherlockian newsletters. And I quickly noticed something: There seemed to be a massive amount of them from the early 1990s.

Now, one could put this down to a particular period of interest in the subscribers involved (my newsletter piles represent the past of two different Sherlockians), but it suddenly occurred to me that it wasn't just a newsletter fad by a couple Sherlockians -- it was technology.

In the 1980s and before, to put out a newsletter, you had to figure out some way to publish your newsletter. Somehow, you had to get your typewritten pages into multiple copies, and that wasn't easy. Mimeograph machines in a workplace, little local printers . . . it wasn't something everyone had access to. Copy machines ran off that slick paper from a roll like fax machines at first. Some people still did it, but you had to have resources that not everyone had access to.

But in the late 1980s, a couple of cool things happened. Apple made desktop publishing a thing and copiers from IBM and Xerox got a whole lot better. Suddenly, as the nineties came on, some folks were even printing newsletters right off their PC's printer in their own homes, which never happened before.

What we had in the early 1990s was a small window of time where printing was now easy and the postal service was still our main method of communication. Print newsletters would continue, of course, with some hardy examples holding on for thirty years or more. But there was a five year span where things kind of went nuts, I think. (Just making broad observations here, don't cite me as proper history.)

Newsletters were so popular that in January of 1992, I find that there was a meeting of "The Central Press Syndicate," a scion for editors of Sherlockian newsletters, at the Algonquin Hotel during the SH birthday weekend organized by Bob Hahn. Eight Sherlockians were in attendance, including Florida's Ben Wood, who was a newsletter champion of that era. A list of recommendations for how the society would work was made, and apparently sent out to newsletter producers of the time.

Did the Central Press Syndicate continue on? Would a full historical survey of the Sherlockian society newsletter be a worthwhile study? (Seems like good fodder for a BSJ Christmas Annual, if nothing else.) It's definitely more work than I'm ever going to undertake, with podcasting, Zoom meetings, and the various other Sherlockian whims of the moment. But it does seem like a fascinating subject, and one someone should start grabbing data on before it fades into the trash bins of history. (Sherlockian newsletters are damned hard to shelve.)

Now that newsletters seem to be moving steadily toward being completely PDF and the printing is left to the subscriber, an end-to-end retrospective of the print-and-mail days of the form seems very possible, especially with archives like the U of M one up there to study. But when those studies are even done, I'm sure of one thing:

The 1990s will show the peak of that graph.

The Valley of Fraud

 The Valley of Fear is a different tale. 

First, there's the thing where Moriarty seems to have been tacked on in a wraparound to the main story.

Second, there's Sherlock Holmes, who, even though he supposedly knows Moriarty is involved, acts like he's on vacation this entire case, picking up tourist brochures, eating heartily at high tea. He's having a fine old time.

And third, there's this thing Mary O'Reilly brought up at tonight's meeting of our local Peoria discussion group: A guy pops out of a wall to hand Dr. Watson the manuscript of his novelette.

With that little bit of framing, the reality of this case finally occurred to me: That manuscript moment was the whole point of this Birlstone Manor House stage play.

"A real downright shorter, Mr. MacDonald!" the local goober proclaims to the three men from London, which is a weird way to describe a gruesome murder, but actually exactly the way a local goober would describe the latest local theatrical production.

Sherlock Holmes, as uncharacteristic in his pace of investigation as all else, seems to take his time in getting to the "dead" body and remarks, "Dear me! These injuries are really apalling," in the manner one would in playing "let's pretend" with a child.

Is it possible that this entire case was a set-up just so that a former Pinkerton who was a friend to Sherlock Holmes, but unknown to Watson, could sell Watson on his adventure manuscript?

There's just enough off in this tale to bear some consideration that way -- and, after all, Watson does seem to have bought into the story and published the thing, when all was said and done. And Watson even used John Douglas's title, which he tells Watson when he hands him the manuscript.

As usual, story discussion night at the library has given me an entirely new perspective on one of Watson's tales. And this time, a bit of a different view of Watson, as well.

Reading them books!

 Sherlockian reading habits sure can change over time.

When I was in college, I read every book I could find with Sherlock Holmes on the cover. As it was the late seventies, and The Seven Per Cent Solution had proved to the world that Sherlock Holmes could still make for a New York Times bestseller, there were a lot of those on the paperback racks. I also carefully worked through The Complete Sherlock Holmes, slowly noting specific details, trying not to miss any wonderful thing about the great detective.

Forty-five years later, my reading pace has slowed down a lot, as a.) I'm not the carefree college student,  b.) I like writing stuff, and c.) How many times have I read those same sixty stories?

I guess I could be reading right now. And tonight is our local discussion group's meeting on The Valley of Fear. And I'm beta reading a book-length work for a pal. And I need to compare two texts for a certain investigatory effort. But here I am, spurred by a comment or two on buying books versus reading books.

When I was younger, I remember more than one person coming into my book room and going "Have you read all them books?" (Maybe they weren't that rustic sounding, but I like to pretend so in my remembrances.) And I would enthusiastically go, "Yes, I have." But now?

Well, I guess you could say that, having read all sixty of Doyle's Sherlock Holmes stories, I technically have read the contents of every weird pirate edition, collection, reprint, etc. of those stories -- just not from the specific books themselves. Collecting will make you a non-reader faster than anything.

I've also got a lot of pastiches that I've strapped on my parachute and bailed out of a few chapters in. That seems to happen a lot these days. And, lord knows there are more books out there that most of us can even afford to buy. 

Things may change with retirement, I suppose, if I don't accidentally step on my glasses ala Burgess Meredith in that ancient Twilight Zone episode at a critical moment. But that target is still many days away. And the writing sure isn't going anywhere. But we shall see.

For now, off to work!

Writing for the Sherlockian few . . . or one . . . or . . .shelf?

 Was it John Bennett Shaw who first paraphrased Churchill by saying, of Sherlockiana:

"Never has so much been written by so many for so few."

That quote raised its figurative hand and waved at me this morning as I prepared to compare two Sherlockian texts and write up my results. Almost none of you have read those two texts -- not due to rarity, just due to lack of interest -- and my essay containing the results might get read by two dozen people if I'm lucky. 

So why am I doing this?

Hey, Sherlockian here!

Do you know how many mountain climbers there are out there, when we have no televised mountain climbing events?

At the meeting of the John H. Watson Society meeting last Saturday there was some discussion of folks who didn't shelve their books until they had read them, and I was dead sure those folks don't buy the same books I do. And even then . . . one has to look at the massive number of thick collected works that are being produced these days and go, "Somebody is reading all of these things cover-to-cover? I don't believe it."

I know of some voracious Sherlockian readers who seem to be able to plow through essay after essay after essay, and I still doubt those folks have read every chronological work on their shelves cover-to-cover. Those fall more into the category of reference books, like an encyclopaedia, though, so I guess we can forgive that. And when it comes to Conan Doyle biographies, one might get the same pass. While not a big fan of the life of the author himself, I do keep a well stocked shelf of those in case he comes up. The ones I've read end-to-end, though? Carr and Stashower.

I have collector friends whom I wonder if they've read half of what they have, but that's an entirely different category, and perhaps why I will excuse some of the "unreads" on my shelves. I have been a collector on occasion. But the fact that I also tend to write things that I don't expect many people to read speaks to a sort of reverse-collector mindset, like I'm just hoping for someone to shelve the data just to make their Sherlockian squirrel brain get a hit of dopamine for hiding a nut.

Fandom is a fascinating world of behaviours all its own, and Sherlockiana doubly so.

Things could be worse, though . . . working in the corporate world, I see many more pointless endeavors every single day. So, at least . . . Sherlock!

Where did Sherlock Holmes get a sandwich?

 There's a pair of lines in "The Red-headed League" that came up during a discussion this week that are just going to keep me wondering:

"There is Mortimer's, the tobacconist, the little newspaper shop, the Coburg branch of the City and Suburban Bank, the Vegetarian Restaurant, and McFarlane's carriage-building depot. And now, Doctor, we've done our work, so it's time we had some play. A sandwich and a cup of coffee, and then off to violin-land . . ."

So, the Vegetarian Restaurant was right there -- would that be where Holmes took Watson for that sandwich and coffee?

We know that the Baker Street rooms were a regular source of sandwiches for Holmes -- Mrs. Hudson seemed to keep some beef and bread on the sideboard for just that purpose. Sherlock Holmes makes one for his pocket on his way out the door in "Beryl Coronet," and Watson refers to him "devouring sandwiches at irregular hours" during "Second Stain" as he ran in and out.

When he's further away from Baker Street, as he was in "Naval Treaty," he gets sandwiches from the little village inn in Ripley to keep in his pocket (as well as filling his flask). His famous cloak must have had some nice, large pockets for sandwich-toting, a feature I rather admire.

Early on, in A Study in Scarlet, Holmes tells Watson that he depends upon his skills at observation and deduction "for my bread and cheese." While not strictly vegan, a sandwich with bread and cheese and some cucumbers or pickles, might have passed for "vegetarian" in the early 1880s? I'm not expert in historic vegetarianism, but it seems possible.

So I just have to wonder if that Vegetarian Restaurant (note the capital letters, which makes it seem like that was its name and not just a description) put Holmes in mind of getting a bite to eat and patronizing Jabez Wilson's neighborhood eatery. And what was on that sandwich!

Back to the lab again

 Well, here we are. Some of us had a very good weekend last weekend. Sherlock Holmes was discussed.

The road back is full of rain, impatience, and food that probably shouldn't be in the diet plan. Impatience, because after all the ideas, spins, and plans that came up over the past few days need to be remembered, noted, explored, and reconsidered.

The transition back to our everyday, of course, can be rough. Suddenly the bills are due again, the job stuff is back, the bean burritos at Taco Bell are a cheap, fast lunch . . . suddenly, we are mere mortals again, having left our own personal Olympus. There were gods, goddesses, and non-binary deities there. 

Writers. Artists.  Podcasters. That actor guy I have always loved. (Seriously. It freaks me out a little bit, and my social skills are weak enough when not freaked out.)

Zoom lords. The smartest people on specific subjects. Party people. The best parts of everyone, coming out for a holiday weekend. No matter what the convention, folks coming out to enthuse about that thing they love is a chance to see the best in them. And what is closer to a heavenly realm than that?

Ah, but then like a certain angel with a TV series, we get tossed from that happy place, back down into what suddenly feels like the capital "P" pit itself for a bit. And yet . . . and yet, we bring something back with us. Like another capital "P" mythic, we bring the fire back with us.

It might be a little, portable flame. Or we might come home ablaze like Johnny Storm himself. But once we're back, it's time to put that energy to use. 

I have a feeling this year might not be entirely easy. A lot of unpleasantness is on the horizon in so many directions. We might have some real problems to deal with. But here's my takeaway from last weekend, and that magical place that only existed for a few days: All those divine beings that inhabited that special place? They didn't vanish when the weekend was over. They spread out across the land, back to their private lairs, secret gardens, tower rooms, and the locals who they may or may not know worship them. And that's kinda hopeful. That's kinda cool.

I want to hold on to that thought for a while. Because there is that whole year again until next time. And just about the time my hopes might start to dwindle, and I might be going "did that really exist?" the next version of it will start the cycle again.

Back to the lab again.