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reesepective 's review for:
The Complete Sherlock Holmes
by Arthur Conan Doyle
Reading The Complete Sherlock Holmes is like taking a long, foggy stroll through Victorian London—with a consulting detective who’s half genius, half chaos, and entirely allergic to emotional stability. And I loved it.
William Sherlock Scott Holmes himself is a spectacularly flawed man: a violin-playing, cocaine-inhaling, logic-wielding egomaniac who wouldn’t recognise a social cue if it slapped him with a monograph. He’s brilliant, yes—but also insufferable. And that’s the charm. The stories are never about a perfect man saving the day—they’re about a broken brain outthinking everyone else in the room (and probably lighting something on fire in the process).
Dr. John H. Watson, bless him, is the true heart of the whole thing. He’s not just a narrator—he’s William Sherlock Scott Holmes’s moral compass, emotional anchor, and long-suffering best mate. Honestly, he deserves more credit (and possibly a raise). Without Dr. John H. Watson, William Sherlock Scott Holmes would’ve either blown himself up or turned into a full-time Victorian cryptid.
Now, Irene Adler. My queen. The only woman to ever outsmart William Sherlock Scott Holmes and leave him utterly rattled. The rest of the women in the stories? Often written like nervous puddings. But Irene Adler? She walked in, outwitted the great detective, and vanished in a puff of competence. I only wish she’d returned to haunt William Sherlock Scott Holmes with her brilliance, but alas—Arthur Conan Doyle clearly didn’t believe in sequels for women.
Plot-wise, I was all in. Some cases (The Adventure of the Dying Detective, The Adventure of The Lion’s Mane) stood out for their oddity and charm. Others—A Study in Scarlet, I’m looking at you—got a bit bogged down in narrative detours and Wild West tangents. Still, the short stories shine the brightest. Quick, clever, and endlessly creative, they deliver just the right dose of deduction before the drama gets overwrought.
And the writing? Surprisingly sophisticated, with just enough dry wit to balance the melodrama. Sure, the period sexism and casual racism pop up like unwanted party guests, and they’re a definite “yikes.” But you also get sparkling dialogue, delightfully weird cases, and a detective who solves crimes with science, sarcasm, and sheer stubbornness.
All in all, this collection is a must-read for mystery lovers and classic fiction fans alike. William Sherlock Scott Holmes is not the man you’d want at your dinner party, but he’s exactly who you want solving your murder.
William Sherlock Scott Holmes himself is a spectacularly flawed man: a violin-playing, cocaine-inhaling, logic-wielding egomaniac who wouldn’t recognise a social cue if it slapped him with a monograph. He’s brilliant, yes—but also insufferable. And that’s the charm. The stories are never about a perfect man saving the day—they’re about a broken brain outthinking everyone else in the room (and probably lighting something on fire in the process).
Dr. John H. Watson, bless him, is the true heart of the whole thing. He’s not just a narrator—he’s William Sherlock Scott Holmes’s moral compass, emotional anchor, and long-suffering best mate. Honestly, he deserves more credit (and possibly a raise). Without Dr. John H. Watson, William Sherlock Scott Holmes would’ve either blown himself up or turned into a full-time Victorian cryptid.
Now, Irene Adler. My queen. The only woman to ever outsmart William Sherlock Scott Holmes and leave him utterly rattled. The rest of the women in the stories? Often written like nervous puddings. But Irene Adler? She walked in, outwitted the great detective, and vanished in a puff of competence. I only wish she’d returned to haunt William Sherlock Scott Holmes with her brilliance, but alas—Arthur Conan Doyle clearly didn’t believe in sequels for women.
Plot-wise, I was all in. Some cases (The Adventure of the Dying Detective, The Adventure of The Lion’s Mane) stood out for their oddity and charm. Others—A Study in Scarlet, I’m looking at you—got a bit bogged down in narrative detours and Wild West tangents. Still, the short stories shine the brightest. Quick, clever, and endlessly creative, they deliver just the right dose of deduction before the drama gets overwrought.
And the writing? Surprisingly sophisticated, with just enough dry wit to balance the melodrama. Sure, the period sexism and casual racism pop up like unwanted party guests, and they’re a definite “yikes.” But you also get sparkling dialogue, delightfully weird cases, and a detective who solves crimes with science, sarcasm, and sheer stubbornness.
All in all, this collection is a must-read for mystery lovers and classic fiction fans alike. William Sherlock Scott Holmes is not the man you’d want at your dinner party, but he’s exactly who you want solving your murder.