Final notes on Holmes

Holmes' sleuthing comprises:

• Analyzing the situation beforehand. Holmes tends to walk around and think the case through even before he attempts to collect any clues.
• Ensuring he does not make any assumptions before he has analyzed all the evidence.
• NEVER guessing. He feels that it is very wrong to predispose oneself before acquiring a firm footing of evidence to base one's beliefs on.
• Collects all the facts in a very diligent and systematic manner, keeping all his assertions to himself unless asked to divulge them by Watson. Even in this event, Holmes may decline to offer any thoughts lest he preempts himself or offers wrong conclusions.
• Most importantly, applying his keen methods of deduction to all the evidence that he finds. He does this by applying a lot of prior knowledge that he has acquired from his work and studies on previous cases, since he believes that no murder is ever really 'new' and that everything has been done before but with variations. Most cases Holmes comes across he is able to compare to one that he has come across previously.
• Finally, Holmes believes in an objective flow of thoughts, uninhibited by emotion and impartial to all sentiments. Such is the attitude that Holmes exhudes, one of objectivity to emotional attachments especially in the case of women and falling in love.

Holmes' very objective take on things.

Holmes' method of detachment DOES help him a lot in his sleuthing. As a matter of fact, in the story that i just read, which i will be blogging on shortly, Holmes totally loses respect (maybe not respect but a certain amount of trust or loyalty) in Watso because Watson commits the worst atrocity in Holmes' books: he falls in love. (ohhhhhhh! how could he?) And Holmes makes his stand on women very clear: that they are a pretty distraction in the field and subtract one from his impartiality while looking at things. As for the general assertions as to what Holmes' character does for the future of mystery novels as well as incorporating what i've learnt into my Independent Reading question, i'm going to hold off on that till i'm done with all my Holmes' stories for, who knows, maybe Holmes was acting out of character or maybe something happened that isn't in the norm for most of the other stories. I think it's better to get evidence now and make assertions later. Okay, stay tuned for my next feature presentation, blogging on the Holmes story, "THE SIGN OF THE FOUR" - coming to a blog near you, soon!

How the Holmes stories typically play out.

Most of the time the entire story is summed up in one major sudden moment of revelation-usually provided by Holmes himself, this epiphany- and is then followed by a totally voluntary confession of the entire crime by an arrested party that played a major role in the perpetration of the murder/theft/whatever the crime may be. Watson's being a veteran does not really affect his POV much and serves mainly for plot development so we know where Watson was and how he came to be in London for the first time. He is rather protrayed simply as the perfect conduit for the story as he is loyal to Holmes, provides all the details, and is always in the thick of the sleuthing-always being challenged by Holmes to try and solve little mysteries along the waybefore he (Holmes) reveals their true nature. And about the questioning, Watson does ask! As a matter of fact, at one point he's so fed up of all the secrecy that he comes out and asks Holmes point-blank what the hell he is doing with his life. This is when Holmes elucidates on the whole crime-solving undercover master-sleuth thing. About the analyzing of people, Holmes quite enjoys the practice and frequently implores Watson to do the same, including making the same observations about him (Holmes). Holmes really has nothing to hide and would be more than happy to see someone else (even Watson) attempt to unravel the mystery that is him (Holmes) through the use of his own methods of deduction.

Alas, I have returned!

I have not been blogging for a while but you must forgive me for i have been overcoming sea monsters and dragons so do not think that i was slacking for i am better than you and my greatness reigns supreme: none of you can compare!!!!!! Do you like my Beowulf impersonation?
Anyway, to get to the point-back to the blogging. First concerning your question about what was affecting Doyle's life at the time...well basically he was very unsuccessful as an Ophthalmologist thus his resorting to other pastimes and thus Sherlock Holmes was born. Holmes is British, yes. Well, as we discussed in class, a lot of the values back then were not at all like our values today-Holmes took cocaine, to the detriment of his health, yes, and to the displeasure of Watson (being a doctor, no less) but Holmes himself was otherwise nonplussed by his unhealthy addiction. For the clues in the cases, we the readers are only clued-in as much as dear Dr. Watson is, and this is usually just enough information so we can NOT unravel the mystery on our own. However, i did once read a mystery by Doyle in the Holmes saga where the author (speaking through Watson of course) actually interluded (if that's a word) and told us that we had all the clues necessary to solve the conundrum- but i was unable to solve it.

and finally, my Villanelle.

Our Journey

Journey with me across the Land
And let us explore its every way
As, through the hourglass, falls the time - in sand.

The Lands roll by; see the Mountains so grand,
In the helm, notice the grandeur of the Hills as I say,
“Journey with me across the Land.”

As the Rivers travel together, so give me your hand,
And let us too travel together, and not bother to notice this day
As, through the hourglass, falls the time in – sand.

Cupid has surely waved a magic wand,
For I wish only that you, this day in May,
Journey with me across the Land.

It is now afoot; the moment is here today,
To travel a journey that will with us stay
As, through the hourglass, falls the time – in sand.

So wear on your finger this, our wedding band,
And so agree to, on this beautiful day,
Journey with me across the Land
As, through the hourglass, falls the time – in sand

And my Sestina...

Two men walk into a bar…

I was seated calmly by the bar
When it just so happened that two men
Walked into the room. They were curious,
This pair, for they entered the dim
Bar wearing the same clothes and the same heavy eyebrows.
Eyebrows were raised, as the reflections of the two jumped out from the mirror

That hang at the opposite end of the bar. The mirror,
All the way at the end of the bar,
Showed the two men’s similar eyebrows
As they raised them at one another, both men
Having noticed their similitude under the dim
Light of the bar. The men found each other curious.

It became more evident and I became more curious
As I noticed the reflection in the mirror;
That, though grave and looking dim
To my eye, by the mirror at the bar
The two figures of the men
Looked jovial and embraced each other’s similar eyebrows.

I gazed at the pair of heavy scrutinizing eyebrows
And then at the ones being embraced, and was curious
As to what caused the difference in the four similar men.
For the image in the truthful mirror
No longer held true to what, at the other end of the bar,
Was evident upon the two dim

Faces. And it just so happened under the dim
Light that the two men with the heavy eyebrows
Walked up to the same chair by the bar.
And the other two men found it curious,
As they watched from the amiable glass of the mirror,
That their alter egos dueled it out for a singular stool. The men

Had both taken a fancy to the chair and the other men
Watched as the others’ faces lost their little light with each blow, growing dim
And no longer bearing any semblance to the ones in the mirror.
And as one man tore the others’ eyebrows
Off, the men in the mirror were no longer curious
To find out what became of their unreasonable counterparts across the bar.

I sit here alone, at my own side of the bar,
Still wondering and still curious
As to why the two men’s eyebrows could not be like the ones in the mirror.

My original Sonnet. Enjoy...please.

These burd’some errands weigh down ’pon my soul,
And shackle me; I’m hardly self-reg’l’tory.
Not hard to see these chores on me their toll,
My face they rack with seams of foul ’mbroid’ry.
I sorely miss and wish I had more time:
She swims me by-I haven’t a hope or prayer.
I’m forced to drink this sour laborious lime
My cumb’some fetters drown me in despair.
But why do I still fight this ’nending strife
Of pain and bear my feet these shards of glass?
This too shall come to pass, is why, that’s life!
It shall o’er me this cup of suff’ring pass.
I must not be deceived my hope’s dead sick,
Her slumber’s caused by some mild sop’rific.

Independent Reading Project! [and so, it begins...]

Health to you (hello), reader, blogger or random browser. Okay, enough pleasure-time to get to business. My reading project revolves around the detective story and its obvious protagonist-the sleuth. These are the things I'm here to find out:
-how has the detective story changed over the years since its birth at the hands of Edgar Allan Poe; has it evolved or devolved?
-the sleuths; what's different about them? what's similar? why should we even care? would any of them thrive solving contemporary gritty crimes?
-and finally, how has technology influenced the detective story genre?(bet you didn't see that one coming) Have technological advances sped up and increased the efficiency of crime solving, or have they simply overcomplicated the process and altered the sleuthing?

I decided to begin my reading with Arthur Conan Doyle's Sherlock Holmes in a short story called "A study in Scarlet". As soon as I am finished reading this story, i will begin the real blogging. Till then, i remain, yours, Adrian.

Mock Hemingway-this was my story, hope it bears some similitude to Hemingway's unique style.

Nod
The unwanted morning rays shone into my room. The blinds were not crafted right. I had always known this for a fact. One day I told that man with the broom to come fix them but he only nodded and emptied the little bin in the corner and left. He was Armenian. I knew this for a fact. For incompetence, you need not search farther than Armenia.

Regardless, I got out of bed. I tried to forget the fool whose incompetence meant my blinding by sunlight every morning. I went through my daily routine. Like any sensible person would, I picked out some clothes that best fit the very hot weather outside. I left my apartment.

Unsurprisingly, the first person I met (an Englishman no less) was dressed completely the opposite. The fool wore the highest turtleneck I had ever seen. His trousers went all the way down to his feet. He nodded his English head at me, like a mock curtsy.

“Whatsup!”

I walked away.

I caught my bus as usual. Today the driver was Australian. Yesterday it was an African and it had nodded at me. He nodded today also. I paid and retreated to the back.

The recesses of the bus stank. They reeked. Boys sat there. They were Spanish ones of course. Their noses gave them away. The little hoodlums kept nodding to their incessant music. They were constantly shaking hands and nodding at one another. The music was so loud it could have burst their little ears. But their ears remained. They stayed put on the constant bobble-heads.
One of them stood to alight from the bus.
Bypassing me, clearly out of the way as I was, the little bobble-head whispered an emphatic “excuse me sir”. I regarded him from top to bottom. He regarded me the almost similarly, nodding me from top to bottom. This time I took offence.

The Spanish boy was on the floor of the bus soon. Writhing in pain, clutching his stomach. My blow had been too quick. I was not slow to act like those frostbitten Alaskans. They take forever to act.

“What did you do that for, sir?” the bobble-head.

“O-mi-god, he hit im!”

“Why?”

“Dunno.”

“Why’d ya do it?”

“Get im off, sir.”

Then they were on me. All of them. A few Asians. A couple of Caucasians, I know one was a Gaul (very chicken-like indeed)-two blacks. Another English one-and I could have sworn a German stomped on my foot in the brouhaha. They all knew how to nod.

The Australian driver led the mob. He read me my rights right there from a little brochure. He carried it in his Kangaroo pouch. He sent me off the bus while nodding. His mob threw me off the bus.

I landed on the hard cobblestone. A piece of pizza lay next to me. It too had been chucked. But it was Italian. It deserved to be chucked.

I lay for a while on the street. I remained still and attracted some attention. Soon, another mob gathered. They stood around me. Some prodded me. More nodded.

I got up and brushed off the dirt. I surveyed the faces. More Gauls, more Germans, more blacks. Too many Caucasians. They all knew how to nod.

I tried to nod back.

My neck was stiff.

I walked away.

Adrian Ntwatwa

And here's my poem. Ditto as with the story, so critique away. Thanks for your time.

TWO FOR ONE
As he grew more ancient, so his tumor, more patent-
Spelt a painful and hurtful doom.
So distraught over his fate, to his pain abate,
He sought a mysterious Oracle’s review.
So full of anxiety when the Oracle recited his well chosen words of gloom-
Words so absurd he repeated to utter-“Two lives for the One to bloom!”

He now sat down to ponder, what destiny awaited him yonder, how long he had in this life,
While his beloved wife, with vigor and strife, gave birth in the emergency room.
Suddenly came a Doctor, whose esteem did not falter and upon the man’s shoulder assume,
The news that the labor had been a drastic failure, and that his wife was doomed.
And as away the doctor sauntered, he despairingly offered that the son would soon be dead too.

Shocked and haunted, as he clutched his sweaty forehead
A new perspective he assumed;
Two lives had been taken, so he’d be forsaken
Of his impending doom.
A lightheaded feeling he soon began feeling and rushed to an examination room.
And true to his thinking, though not to his liking, his illness’ absence was true!

Dazed and amazed he cursed the day
That he sought refuge in the Oracle’s dark room.
For at that moment, though the words unspoken, he said unto himself;
“I have cast upon them a gloom-
So certain, that it has, them both, duly doomed.
Then shall I embrace this dark fate too…

He ran up the stairs, bounded up them in pairs
For he was certain of what he was to do.
Atop the building that glistened, he stood for a moment stricken-
Silently cursed, himself, and flew…
He said unto himself, “It is the only thing to do…”
And he fell down to his doom.

A coincidence, one conclusion, a fluke during the confusion
As nobody knew what to do
For all the doctors were stricken, some merely sickened
By the thud of the landing of the fool,
That none of them had a clue
When the little dead baby sneezed “achuu!”

Adrian Ntwatwa.

The Peephole

This is a short story that i wrote last year and has undergone a lot of editing till this-its current state. If you have the time, please read it and critique it as honestly as possible. Your time is highly appreciated. Thanks.


THE PEEPHOLE
For a long time, in these parts, the Peephole has been a mystery, and, for as long as I can remember, has been a most controversial topic. One cannot stroll in the propinquity of North London without hearing word of its intriguing peculiarity. Right up from the higher echelons of the London aristocracy, down to the dispirited paupers, penny-pinching their meager wages for a living-all have incalculable perceptions of the Peephole. And this Peephole is the reason for my story.

A desolate graying house stood hunched over in the dark recluse of Devour Street. A mysterious house, everyone agreed, for none could exactly place the date work on it began.But this one thing was true, for all concerned concurred, that one day this mysterious house was absent-and yet the very next, it bent over the location like it had done so for quite a while, and for that matter, was growing weary of performing the tedious task for which it had been conscripted.

It was a peculiar house in several ways. It had numerous windows sunk in its façade, but all of these peering portholes appeared to be boarded up from within. The likeness of the panes to a multitude of…eyes…shut out to the daylight, was uncanny. It also had a vile disposition, this House, of slanting, no, leaning forward, with its glazed ‘eyes’ hovering above the front porch-like those of a slumbering curator-to bore into the…flesh…of any who infringed upon the malevolence of its veranda.

There were several other interesting particulars to this House (including its front door, which no one, it seemed, could gain access through) but none was more noteworthy than the Peephole that permitted the key to the front door. This Peephole was unlike any that you will ever come across-it was a slit on the doorknob, a gash pierced into the handle, an aperture that men brooded over and wasted before. Its’ infinite perplexities have confounded many a men of our generation.

It is uncertain what can be seen within the House, for all that dared to glimpse through the Peephole into the House went…awry in their psyche. I will not call these maladies symptoms of insanity-for whom is given the right to judge who is insane and who is not?! Certainly not anyone I know-therefore I will simply say that these men were changed by the House. They told tales of horrifying things-things that are so repulsive, they are nauseating. Gut wrenching anecdotes of gruesome gory creatures and visions of impalement by razor-sharp arrays of instruments-these were but a few of the THINGS that these men had ‘seen’ in that infinitesimal portal of EVIL, that gateway to malevolence, THAT PEEPHOLE…

…things that would have no appeal to the non-superstitious mind, of course, which is exactly why I had no inkling of an interest in the matter. I am a man of science, you see, therefore do not misconstrue what I am telling you for fact. These are surely ideas of men that have spent one day too many looking directly into the sun. However, I will lay out all the facts so that you may discern, for yourself, that these were but the ravings of madmen and the lunatics intoxicated enough to believe their ranting.

It was on a humid summer night that I sat adjacent to Edwin, a favorite cousin of mine, in a stifling hot tavern just a few blocks away from this ‘forsaken’ house. He was in the prime of his youth and very successful by then-Edwin was-and I knew of none else as full of life and charisma as my dear Edwin. He had come over for a week on a rather unofficial visit to see the sights of London and it was to be his last night over before he would return to America, where no one occasionally mistook him for Edwin Lutyens.

Drinks were flowing freely-as they were on my tab-and laughter rang through the room from the hoards of overzealous hooligans in our midst. Everybody was in a jolly mood; Edwin, excited to return home, the hoodlums, enjoying beverages at my expense and the proprietor f the tavern, enjoying my business.

Slowly, however, like a noxious gas creeping into the room through the floorboards, word of the house and its latest ‘victim’ seeped into the conversation.

Gradually, the atmosphere changed-there was no more laughter and the costly drinks lay unattended. The air of dejection slowly grew thick and before long, the entire community of merrymakers had fallen under its spell. The room was now rife with stories of this dreaded house and the numerous…misfortunes…to which it had been attributed. And my dear cousin, intrigued by these fabulous tales, asked me to do him one last favour prior to his departure.

“Hey, could you take me to see that house, old chap?” he said in a heavily feigned British accent.

“Are you raving mad?” I asked.

“Not at all, cousin.” he replied, a malevolent grin spreading across his youthful face “its just that am not superstitious-or a coward” he mocked.

I threw him the dirtiest look I could conjure under the circumstances and replied, “I swear you must be mad. Nobody in his right mind would go to that…place. No one.”

“Oh c’mon old chap,” a name he had discovered irritated me a lot, “where’s your sense of adventure? I want to go somewhere interesting for a change, no more corny museums.” And he looked at me, pleadingly, but I equalled him with my reserve.

So Edwin played his final card, “Okay, cousin, seeing as you wont take me, I’ll just have to pay one of these nice gentlemen to show me the way,” he said, gesturing towards the scoundrels hovered around us in the cramped little tavern.

Dear Edwin knew that that would be too much for me to bear-I could not stand to see my cousin, my own esteemed flesh and blood, get duped by one of the local conmen and possibly get mugged in one of the London cul-de-sacs. Not if I could help it.

“Fine,” I spat “I’d rather take you than see a penny go to waste on one of these-“

“I knew you’d come around, old chap!” he cried triumphantly.

And as we left the packed saloon, I said, “on the condition that you let up on all this ‘old chap’ business-you know, am not much older than you-”

“Sure,” he cut me off “sure thing old chap, now lead on! Tallyho!” and he laughed out loud into the bewitching ether, a trace of gin on his breath.

The sombre trek to the House was shorter than even I expected, and in less than five minutes, we stood on the sidewalk that paved the way up to the front door of the House. Simply standing there in front of the House, looking upon its spectral façade, made my skin crawl-the first time that had happened to me in a long while.

The darkness of the night crept upon us all the more as the distant houses that dared to stand in the vicinity of the possessed one turned off their lights to slumber.

Edwin stood transfixed, staring at the House in utter amazement. Meanwhile, I felt a bead of sweat begin to collect on my brow-another first in a long time.

“Okay,” I said, “that’ll do. You asked me to show you where it was, and I did. Now can we go?”

“This is amazing, my dear old chap!” he said without taking his eyes from the House. “Just look at it. It’s almost on the verge of collapse and yet it stands on-that tower in Pisa is a catastrophe compared to this masterpiece!”
Edwin slowly made his way up to the front of the House, and with every step he made on the dreaded porch, the loose decaying floorboards creaked, like a slumbering beast whose fur was being trod upon.

“Come now,” Edwin said, “lets take a closer look, shall we?”

“No, no, no! You’re not getting any closer to that abomination,” but my words fell on deaf ears.
Edwin paced up and down on the porch while I stood, tentatively, rooted to the spot, out of reach of the House’s menace. I broke out into a cold sweat and beads of perspiration raced down my temple, yet still I found myself shivering with cold.
I tried to shout to dear Edwin, now upon the threshold of the place but my voice got caught in my throat. I tried to produce a sound from my mouth but nothing came forth-“what if I wake it?” I remember asking myself.

Edwin, meanwhile, was introducing himself to the intricacies of the House’s doorknob, and by his deft movements, I could tell he was searching for a way into the forsaken place.

“C’mon Edwin…” I tried to call out meekly but a gust of wind swept my words away as they left my lips.

Now the figure that was Edwin held the knob and tried in vain to open the door. The door would not budge.

Finally, after looking back and smiling at me-little did I know it would be for his last time-dear Edwin arched his back and stooped till his eye was able to glare fully into the Peephole, and absorb whatever evil was in that House…

I know now that I should have done something then, I am still haunted by nightmares because I let it happen.

Even then, as my cousin stared into his demise, I knew I should have said something, called him back or even dragged him from the place.

But I did nothing-I watched. I watched intently, keenly, for what-I did not know.

But a part of me wanted to know-to ‘see’. It is for that matter that I let it happen. I let things be.

Up to now I do not know if I would have had it any other way. Perhaps for the sake of my cousin’s life, yes-but you must understand that I had to let it happen-My GOD-I had to let It happen! Don’t judge me…please, I did not want for him to die, so do not deem me cruel for that matter only. How could I have known what the beast had in mind for him?

Must I continue?…I assume I must…

The events that transpire henceforth are eternally seared in my mind, deeper than I would prefer…and thus my account of them will be as detailed as my haunting recollection allows.
Once again, as I stated earlier-did I not?!-I do not expect any sympathy, empathy or remorse for what I am about to tell you…did I?…never mind…

…Edwin bent over the peephole for a few minutes before he stood aright again and slowly, very slowly, turned to face me. I gasped at what I saw.
Before me now stood what used to be Edwin-a blank expression on his empty face, sucked dry of all the charm and charisma he used to possess, his eyes-oh those eyes-full of…nothing-just darkness. It was a limp lifeless soulless body-just a sack of meat and bones now. Meat and bones.

Then it happened.

The HOUSE…do not think me a lunatic for saying this but…the house awoke, AWOKE I tell you! Stirred from its ethereal slumber, the beast opened its evil EYES and squalls of fire emitted from its cruel chasms!

Suddenly the door swung open revealing a dark doorway, a doorway that breathed evil air and reeked of confined malice-the beast had a MOUTH!
Then Edwin, or what remained of Edwin, fell backwards, and plummeted into the abyss, SWALLOWED whole by the HOUSE!

IT ATE MY DEAR OLD CHAP.

Yay-my very own blog!!!!

Pop the champagne bottles and smash some of them against the ship's hull-for my very own blog is now online! One small step for me, and one giant step for my future (me again)-here's to all the great things that will be written on this page!