Take a photo of a barcode or cover
merlandese 's review for:
The Hound of the Baskervilles
by Arthur Conan Doyle
The legacy of Sherlock Holmes exceeds the written versions in every way.
When I remove what I know and love about the myth of Holmes from my mind, The Hound of Baskervilles feels patchy and lulling. It manages to be padded out with fluff but still paper thin.
As far as a mystery, it's better to go for Agatha Christie. That's what you really want when you think of a Holmes mystery: Hercule Poirot. I mean, what a nice dangling carrot to have, this mystery of a gigantic hound stalking the moor! And how disappointing it is to learn that the truth is that there's... actually a gigantic hound stalking the moor.
It's like being handed a code and when you decode it the message is "this is a code."
I felt a lot like Watson when, 3/4ths through the book, he realizes that all of his boring drudgery without Holmes has revealed almost nothing useful. And near the end, when Holmes remarks something to the effect of "we still don't have a case," it dawned one me. Oh, right! We DON'T have a case! No wonder I don't feel any closer to closure.
Taken less as a mystery and more as an adventure is probably the way you're supposed to digest a Holmes book. He's not Poirot. That's unfair, it's the myth the media has evolved (a nice mythos). He's smart because the books tell us he's smart in the same way that my uncle is cool because he tells me he's cool. But as an adventure, how is it?
Well, pretty tame. There's some excitement at the beginning when the group is being spied on, and some excitement at the end when they lock horns with a painted dog. But mostly it's Watson plodding about the estate writing letters. He solves a couple minor mysteries minutes after they're revealed using the incredible power of Just Talking To People, but in the end there's nothing all too gripping about it.
Sir Arthur Conan Doyle did entertainment a huge service in writing this book, but everything afterward has been a whole lot better.
When I remove what I know and love about the myth of Holmes from my mind, The Hound of Baskervilles feels patchy and lulling. It manages to be padded out with fluff but still paper thin.
As far as a mystery, it's better to go for Agatha Christie. That's what you really want when you think of a Holmes mystery: Hercule Poirot. I mean, what a nice dangling carrot to have, this mystery of a gigantic hound stalking the moor! And how disappointing it is to learn that the truth is that there's... actually a gigantic hound stalking the moor.
It's like being handed a code and when you decode it the message is "this is a code."
I felt a lot like Watson when, 3/4ths through the book, he realizes that all of his boring drudgery without Holmes has revealed almost nothing useful. And near the end, when Holmes remarks something to the effect of "we still don't have a case," it dawned one me. Oh, right! We DON'T have a case! No wonder I don't feel any closer to closure.
Taken less as a mystery and more as an adventure is probably the way you're supposed to digest a Holmes book. He's not Poirot. That's unfair, it's the myth the media has evolved (a nice mythos). He's smart because the books tell us he's smart in the same way that my uncle is cool because he tells me he's cool. But as an adventure, how is it?
Well, pretty tame. There's some excitement at the beginning when the group is being spied on, and some excitement at the end when they lock horns with a painted dog. But mostly it's Watson plodding about the estate writing letters. He solves a couple minor mysteries minutes after they're revealed using the incredible power of Just Talking To People, but in the end there's nothing all too gripping about it.
Sir Arthur Conan Doyle did entertainment a huge service in writing this book, but everything afterward has been a whole lot better.