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The Hound of the Baskervilles (1902)

by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

Other authors: See the other authors section.

Series: Sherlock Holmes (5)

MembersReviewsPopularityAverage ratingConversations / Mentions
11,730241387 (3.93)3 / 459
When Sir Charles Baskerville is found mysteriously dead in the grounds of Baskerville Hall, everyone remembers the legend of the monstrous creature that haunts the moor. The greatest detective in the world, Sherlock Holmes, knows there must be a more rational explanation -- but the difficulty lies in finding it before the hellhound finds him.An Accelerated Reader Title.… (more)
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English (220)  Spanish (7)  German (2)  Dutch (2)  Swedish (2)  Czech (2)  Danish (1)  Portuguese (Brazil) (1)  French (1)  Italian (1)  Hebrew (1)  Portuguese (Portugal) (1)  All languages (241)
Showing 1-5 of 220 (next | show all)
matthew stewart
stunning illustrations
1054/1200 ( )
  Drfreddy94 | Sep 2, 2020 |
Magával ragad a történet, a nyomozás izgalma, a misztikum, a természetfeletti. De a zseniális benne a szerkesztés, a váltások, a nézőpontok és persze az információk adagolása. Izgalmas megtapasztalni, hogy milyen kitűnően használja az akkori technikát - a nyilvántartásokat, a táviratot, a sajtót. Lenyűgöző a kötelességtudata az ügyféllel szemben és ugyanakkor félelmetes a kockázatvállalása is. Jó volt olvasni, figyelni a részletekre, igyekezni levonni bizonyos következtetéseket és összerakni a mozaikot. Nekem ez volt az első Homes-történetem, eddig csak filmen találkoztam a nyomozóval. ( )
  gjudit8 | Aug 3, 2020 |
Of all the adventures I was involved in with my father—the great consulting detective Shylock Bones—one in particular stands out as being of a most singular nature: the case that came to be known by the wider public as The Hound of the Baskervilles.

The circumstances' commencement came concurrently with the closure of a curious case concerning a corrupt cartload of clowns in Croatia. Forsooth, that extremely esoteric East European enterprise may be the subject of a future narrative, but for now its details are being kept under wraps, concerning as they do several indiscreet revelations about leading members of European society and the fact that a certain Prince of Wales goes by the moniker "Mandy" of a weekend.

As I was saying, this particular case began as I was taking my breakfast and perusing the morning newspapers in our apartment. Our housekeeper, Mrs Bodkin, had just bustled out of the room when Bones himself came rushing in through the window, dressed somewhat unconvincingly as a badger.

"You will no doubt deduce," he said, "what I have spent the night doing."

In our time together I had grown used to these curious bouts of behaviour from my father, each of them normally followed by a long stint of inactivity in front of an anachronistic tellybox. Usually Bones wore it out of his system with little input from myself, so I settled for a glance in his direction before busying myself once more with the paper.

"Come on, George!" he exclaimed. "Make some deductions!"

I ignored the fact he'd used the wrong name for me. Again. It's not like my father's inability to remember his only son's name was going to have any long lasting psychological effects and lead to aforementioned son writing weird semi-fictitious accounts of events from his childhood in order to review Edwardian mystery books some twenty years later. "What the blazes are you talking about?" I huffed, huffily.

"Deduce!" he said again. "Like Sherlock Holmes!" My blank look was apparently reply enough, but being an unspoken response doesn't warrant a new paragraph. Bones continued thus: "Sherlock Holmes! The great detective! Surely you've heard of him?"

The lack of any good old fashioned full stops for eight sentences running was getting to me, so I kept my voice level as I said "I'm afraid not, Bones."

"Well we'll soon remedy that!" he exclaimed. Passing to the window he leant out and let rip with a most shrill whistle. Barely had the ringing left my ears before an urchinous little ragamuffin poked his head up.

"Y'alright, guv?" enquired the oik. I assumed by the child's brutish and slovenly appearance that he was one of Bones's Irregulars.

"Greetings," said Bones, "young Mr Pickletosser isn't it?"

"Nah, guv," said the guttersnipe, "Pickletosser's the lad who may or may not appear in a future review of a Dickens book done in the same parody-cum-anecdote style as this here one."

Bones appeared somewhat put out that his usual penchant for names and faces had eluded him, but soon straightened up. "Well whatever your name is, here's half a crown, run down to the local bookgrocers and pick up a copy of Arthur Conan Doyle's The Hound of the Baskervilles, and there's a half sovereign in it for you if you're back with it by the end of this somewhat overlong and increasingly rambly sentence," said Bones, taking the book from the wastrel and handing over a shiny half sovereign. Bones then tossed the book to me as the waif loafed out of this narrative grumbling about the uselessness of sovereigns given that decimalisation had replaced them a couple of decades earlier. "Get your laughing tackle around that," suggested Bones in his usual precise manner, pointing at the novel. So I did. Figuratively.

The next morning when Bones joined me for breakfast at one pm sharp I was ebullient. "By Jove, Bones, the book was superb!" I began waxing poetic over the novel's evocative language, it's clever layout, the dark undertones, and the fact that Holmes's absence for half the book merely serves to increase the dramatic tension rather than making one wonder when Sherlock Holmes is going to appear in this Sherlock Holmes story. In short, I gushed like a fourteen year old girl over a sparkly centenarian vampire.

"Well I don't know about the language or that other stuff, I mean I've never even read it, but it's certainly a rip-snorter of a yarn," said Bones.

"But Heavens, Bones," I said, "surely even a deductionist of your calibre can't infer the quality of the story within the book merely by looking at it from without!"

"Ah, George," said Bones with an amused chuckle, "all these years you've been living with me and still you have not learned my methods."

"Then please," I said, "do tell." I leant forward eagerly in my seat, preparing myself physically and mentally to be stunned by Bones's terrifyingly keen mind, ready to follow the twists and turns of his twisty and turny logic from simple axioms to their awesome conclusion. I even reached down and surreptitiously took a hold of my socks, fearful as I was that Bones's masterful deductions would literally knock them off.

"It really was elementary," he said, "I simply watched it on the telly." And with that he took up his pipe and began reading the newspaper, while I picked up the nearest blunt instrument and approached him, in my mind preparing the text for Bones's next case: The Smart-Arse Detective who had to Visit the Doctor to Remove a Violin from his Fundament. ( )
  imlee | Jul 7, 2020 |
Of all the adventures I was involved in with my father—the great consulting detective Shylock Bones—one in particular stands out as being of a most singular nature: the case that came to be known by the wider public as The Hound of the Baskervilles.

The circumstances' commencement came concurrently with the closure of a curious case concerning a corrupt cartload of clowns in Croatia. Forsooth, that extremely esoteric East European enterprise may be the subject of a future narrative, but for now its details are being kept under wraps, concerning as they do several indiscreet revelations about leading members of European society and the fact that a certain Prince of Wales goes by the moniker "Mandy" of a weekend.

As I was saying, this particular case began as I was taking my breakfast and perusing the morning newspapers in our apartment. Our housekeeper, Mrs Bodkin, had just bustled out of the room when Bones himself came rushing in through the window, dressed somewhat unconvincingly as a badger.

"You will no doubt deduce," he said, "what I have spent the night doing."

In our time together I had grown used to these curious bouts of behaviour from my father, each of them normally followed by a long stint of inactivity in front of an anachronistic tellybox. Usually Bones wore it out of his system with little input from myself, so I settled for a glance in his direction before busying myself once more with the paper.

"Come on, George!" he exclaimed. "Make some deductions!"

I ignored the fact he'd used the wrong name for me. Again. It's not like my father's inability to remember his only son's name was going to have any long lasting psychological effects and lead to aforementioned son writing weird semi-fictitious accounts of events from his childhood in order to review Edwardian mystery books some twenty years later. "What the blazes are you talking about?" I huffed, huffily.

"Deduce!" he said again. "Like Sherlock Holmes!" My blank look was apparently reply enough, but being an unspoken response doesn't warrant a new paragraph. Bones continued thus: "Sherlock Holmes! The great detective! Surely you've heard of him?"

The lack of any good old fashioned full stops for eight sentences running was getting to me, so I kept my voice level as I said "I'm afraid not, Bones."

"Well we'll soon remedy that!" he exclaimed. Passing to the window he leant out and let rip with a most shrill whistle. Barely had the ringing left my ears before an urchinous little ragamuffin poked his head up.

"Y'alright, guv?" enquired the oik. I assumed by the child's brutish and slovenly appearance that he was one of Bones's Irregulars.

"Greetings," said Bones, "young Mr Pickletosser isn't it?"

"Nah, guv," said the guttersnipe, "Pickletosser's the lad who may or may not appear in a future review of a Dickens book done in the same parody-cum-anecdote style as this here one."

Bones appeared somewhat put out that his usual penchant for names and faces had eluded him, but soon straightened up. "Well whatever your name is, here's half a crown, run down to the local bookgrocers and pick up a copy of Arthur Conan Doyle's The Hound of the Baskervilles, and there's a half sovereign in it for you if you're back with it by the end of this somewhat overlong and increasingly rambly sentence," said Bones, taking the book from the wastrel and handing over a shiny half sovereign. Bones then tossed the book to me as the waif loafed out of this narrative grumbling about the uselessness of sovereigns given that decimalisation had replaced them a couple of decades earlier. "Get your laughing tackle around that," suggested Bones in his usual precise manner, pointing at the novel. So I did. Figuratively.

The next morning when Bones joined me for breakfast at one pm sharp I was ebullient. "By Jove, Bones, the book was superb!" I began waxing poetic over the novel's evocative language, it's clever layout, the dark undertones, and the fact that Holmes's absence for half the book merely serves to increase the dramatic tension rather than making one wonder when Sherlock Holmes is going to appear in this Sherlock Holmes story. In short, I gushed like a fourteen year old girl over a sparkly centenarian vampire.

"Well I don't know about the language or that other stuff, I mean I've never even read it, but it's certainly a rip-snorter of a yarn," said Bones.

"But Heavens, Bones," I said, "surely even a deductionist of your calibre can't infer the quality of the story within the book merely by looking at it from without!"

"Ah, George," said Bones with an amused chuckle, "all these years you've been living with me and still you have not learned my methods."

"Then please," I said, "do tell." I leant forward eagerly in my seat, preparing myself physically and mentally to be stunned by Bones's terrifyingly keen mind, ready to follow the twists and turns of his twisty and turny logic from simple axioms to their awesome conclusion. I even reached down and surreptitiously took a hold of my socks, fearful as I was that Bones's masterful deductions would literally knock them off.

"It really was elementary," he said, "I simply watched it on the telly." And with that he took up his pipe and began reading the newspaper, while I picked up the nearest blunt instrument and approached him, in my mind preparing the text for Bones's next case: The Smart-Arse Detective who had to Visit the Doctor to Remove a Violin from his Fundament. ( )
  leezeebee | Jul 6, 2020 |
Please note that I gave this book 3.5 stars and rounded it up to 4 stars on Goodreads.

For such a short story, it did take a while to get going. We have Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson involved in a case of a mysterious hound that a man (James Mortimer) believes killed his friend Charles Baskerville. James is concerned since the new heir to the Baskerville estate, Sir Henry. There is a lot of clues and in the end, Holmes and Watson solve the mystery.

I like these stories (well the ones I have read) for the most part because we get told the story from Watson's point of view, with lots of Holmes running commentary. This one was lacking I thought since we get very little Holmes in this. I would liken it to the Poirot mystery I read last year where he solves the crime by sitting in his apartment, but had someone else do all of the work (The Clocks). Instead we have lots of Watson being on the scene and writing to Holmes to share his comments on everyone around the Baskerville estate.

I think the last story I read and really enjoyed about Sherlock and Doctor Watson was "The Adventure of the Speckled Band." Probably because the way the suspect set things up was very clever to me. And I loved the final resolution to everything as well. This story has whet my appetite somewhat for Holmes and Watson, so maybe I will start trying to read the first couple of stories again soon.

I can honestly say that I found the writing to be just a little bit muddled at times. I at one point could not follow who was who and who had done what (the two main women in the story). And I kind of called nonsense at how the whole thing was set-up. Maybe it's just me, but I think you could think of something better to do if you want to get rid of people. The flow was rather painful too for such a short story. I think it was jumping from Watson's narrative to his letters, and without Holmes around to provide clarity, I had no idea if what Watson was doing would ultimately be germane to the plot.

The setting of the Baskerville estate was perfect for a Halloween read though. A huge home alone on the moor with a dangerous hound afoot. We even get Watson out and about during a moonlit night for those who may want to read this for another bingo square.

The ending was slightly clumsy too. We had Holmes repeat what we already knew to Watson, and what Watson already knew too. I think it was to try to explain away a lot of holes in the story though, which Holmes or in this case Doyle did not do a very good job of.

I had a lot of fun reading everyone's updates and reviews for this one! ( )
  ObsidianBlue | Jul 1, 2020 |
Showing 1-5 of 220 (next | show all)

» Add other authors (144 possible)

Author nameRoleType of authorWork?Status
Doyle, Sir Arthur Conanprimary authorall editionsconfirmed
Auld, WilliamTranslatorsecondary authorsome editionsconfirmed
Bawden, EdwardIllustratorsecondary authorsome editionsconfirmed
BrugueraEditorsecondary authorsome editionsconfirmed
Case, DavidNarratorsecondary authorsome editionsconfirmed
Cumberbatch, BenedictIntroductionsecondary authorsome editionsconfirmed
Davies, David IanNarratorsecondary authorsome editionsconfirmed
Erné, NinoTranslatorsecondary authorsome editionsconfirmed
Kankaanpää, JaakkoTranslatorsecondary authorsome editionsconfirmed
Martinez, SergioIllustratorsecondary authorsome editionsconfirmed
Mosley, FrancisIllustratorsecondary authorsome editionsconfirmed
Nordberg, NilsTranslatorsecondary authorsome editionsconfirmed
Nordberg, NilsIntroductionsecondary authorsome editionsconfirmed
Paget, SidneyIllustratorsecondary authorsome editionsconfirmed
Pendleton, DonIntroductionsecondary authorsome editionsconfirmed
Penzler, OttoIntroductionsecondary authorsome editionsconfirmed
Perry, AnneAfterwordsecondary authorsome editionsconfirmed
Prebble, SimonNarratorsecondary authorsome editionsconfirmed
Robson, W. W.Editorsecondary authorsome editionsconfirmed
Sánchez Sanz, RamiroTranslatorsecondary authorsome editionsconfirmed
Timson, DavidNarratorsecondary authorsome editionsconfirmed
Tull, PatrickNarratorsecondary authorsome editionsconfirmed
Vast, Joséphinesecondary authorsome editionsconfirmed
Vestdijk, SimonTranslatorsecondary authorsome editionsconfirmed

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Dedication
This story owes its inception to my friend, Mr Fletcher Robinson, who has helped me both in the general plot and in the local details
First words
Mr. Sherlock Holmes, who was usually very late in the mornings, save upon those not infrequent occasions when he was up all night, was seated at the breakfast table.
Quotations
A long, low moan, indescribably sad, swept over the moor. It filled the whole air, and yet it was impossible to say whence it came. From a dull murmur it swelled into a deep roar, and then sank back into a melancholy, throbbing murmur once again. Stapleton looked at me with a curious expression in his face.

"Queer place, the moor!" said he.
A long, low moan, indescribably sad, swept over the moor. It filled the whole air, and yet it was impossible to say whence it came. From a dull murmur it swelled into a deep roar, and then sank back into a melancholy, throbbing murmur once again. Stapleton looked at me with a curious expression in his face.

"Queer place, the moor!" said he.
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(Click to show. Warning: May contain spoilers.)
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This is the main work for The Hound of the Baskervilles. Please do not combine it with any abridgement, adaptation, omnibus containing additional works, etc.
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Wikipedia in English (2)

When Sir Charles Baskerville is found mysteriously dead in the grounds of Baskerville Hall, everyone remembers the legend of the monstrous creature that haunts the moor. The greatest detective in the world, Sherlock Holmes, knows there must be a more rational explanation -- but the difficulty lies in finding it before the hellhound finds him.An Accelerated Reader Title.

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Book description
In one of the greatest mystery thrillers ever written, Sherlock Homes unravels the case of the Hound of the Baskervilles. Holmes and his companion Dr. Watson travel to the wilds of Dartmoor, England, to discover the truth behind the death of Sir Charles Baskerville. Did he die of natural causes? Or could he have fallen victim to the family curse, a ghostly hound? This abridgment for younger readers captures the atmosphere of fear and unease that pervades the novel like the fog over the moor. It also conveys the fascinating character and the humorous eccentricities of Sherlock Holmes, the world's greatest detective. Fact-filled columns and pages explore the background to the story, the history of detection, the life of the author Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and the lasting influence of his great creation, Sherlock Holmes.
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Penguin Australia

6 editions of this book were published by Penguin Australia.

Editions: 0451528018, 014043786X, 0141034327, 0141195223, 0241952875, 0141199172

Candlewick Press

An edition of this book was published by Candlewick Press.

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Tantor Media

3 editions of this book were published by Tantor Media.

Editions: 1400102650, 1400108977, 1400115159

Urban Romantics

2 editions of this book were published by Urban Romantics.

Editions: 1909175021, 190917503X

Recorded Books

An edition of this book was published by Recorded Books.

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