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This beautiful literary novel imagines Sherlock Holmes at age ninety-three. His phenomenal mental acuity diminishing and the emotional life he had always resisted pushing its way to the surface, the world's greatest detective is forced to confront the most baffling mystery of his career, that of the meaning and significance of his own inner life.… (more)
Yes, this is a book about Sherlock Holmes, but it is not a mystery novel; it is a melancholy meditation on age, death, loneliness, and love. How sad it is to watch a great mind such as Holmes's fading. His few friends are gone; after two devastating world wars, his world itself is gone; and yet he survives. He studies, writes, keeps his bees, and even makes the occasional human connection. The book is beautifully written, displaying a deep love for the character and the stories. The portrait of the 93-year-old Holmes is interwoven with his own recounting of a case from many years earlier, one that brought little to solve except for the mysteries of the human mind and heart. His journey to postwar Japan is not as well-integrated with the rest of the novel as it might have been, but it does show us a Holmes who, at last, has begun to understand the psychology of love and loss, as well as why the truth is not always what is most important.
I see that some reviewers are disappointed, perhaps having expected more detection. However, those of us who love Sherlock—especially if we ourselves have been dealing with the decline of body, senses, and mind that comes with age—can find in this novel, despite its sadness, some understanding of Holmes and ourselves. ( )
It is 1947, and the long-retired Sherlock Holmes, now 93, lives in a remote Sussex farmhouse with his housekeeper and her young son. He tends to his bees, writes in his journal, and grapples with the diminishing powers of his mind. That is the premise that this book is based on. In reality it could be any old man and indeed it may have been better if it was because using the name Sherlock Holmes leads to a certain expectation No?
A better book than the movie (Mr. Holmes) in the most part, though the movie has some better parts (and ends in a much nicer fashion). The writing is good, the story is good. As far as Holmes post-career pastiches go, it's a good one. Watch the movie, then read this. ( )
I've had this sitting on the shelf since its release in 2005, but decided I'd best read it before the film opens. It's a beautifully written, ultimately sad and reflective piece of work that attempts to breathe a certain degree of depth into the character of a rather elderly Sherlock Holmes dealing with age and memory loss. It's certainly a very 'original' take on Holmes, fairly engaging, which is down to the lovely writing style more than the story, but on completion I found myself wondering about the point of it all. As a study of aging, loneliness, isolation and and memory loss, it's fascinating, but as a Holmes tale, well, I don't think I really 'get' why Holmes was needed as the protagonist. If the goal was to show the hidden side of Holmes, the human side, laced with all the attached foibles and intricacies of human relationships, I guess it achieves that, but I was still left wondering 'To what end?' In any event, it was a fine read, just to my mind, a vaguely pointless one. Can't begin to imagine how this work will translate to the screen. Guess I'll find out soon... ( )
I was sure, at least, that I'd finally seen a face which played an essential part in my life, and that it was more human and childlike than in my dream. More than that I didn't know, for it was already gone again. — Morio Kita, Ghosts
What is this strange silent voice that speaks to bees and no one else can hear? — William Longgood, The Queen Must Die
Dedication
For my mother, Charlotte Richardson, a fan of mysteries and life's scenic routes; and for the late John Bennett Shaw, who once left me in charge of his library.
First words
Upon arriving from his travels abroad, he entered his stone-built farmhouse on a summer's afternoon, leaving the luggage by the front door for his housekeeper to manage.
Quotations
It has come to my attention that my former helpmate [Dr. Watson] has recently been cast in an unfair light by both dramatists and so-called mystery novelists. These individuals of dubious repute, whose names are not worthy of mention here, have sought to portray him as a little more than an oafish, blundering fool. Nothing could be further from reality. The very notion that I would burden myself with a slow-witted companion might be humourous in a theatrical context, but I regard such forms of insinuation as a serious insult to John and to me. It is possible that some error of representation could have stemmed from his writings, for he was always generous in overstating my abilities, while, at the same time, treating his own remarkable characteristics with tremendous modesty. Even so, the man I worked beside displayed a native shrewdness and an innate cunningness which was invaluable to our investigations. I do not deny his sporadic inability to grasp an obvious conclusion where to choose the best course of action, but rarely was he unintelligent in his opinions and conclusions. Above that, it was my pleasure to spend my younger days in the company of one who could sense adventure in the most mundane of cases, and who, with his customary humour, patience, and loyalty, indulged the eccentricities of a frequently disagreeable friend. Therefore, if the pundits are honestly inclined to pick the most foolish of the pair, then I believe, without question, they should bestow the honour upon me alone.
“No, no,” Holmes replied, “I am afraid I never wore a deerstalker, or smoked the big pipe—mere embellishments by an illustrator, intended to give me distinction, I suppose, and sell magazines. I didn’t get much say in the matter.”
He wouldn't strive for any answers (at least not on this day), nor would he ever believe that his tearfulness might be the concentrated sum-total result of everything he had seen, known, cared for, lost, and kept stifled throughout the decades—the fragments of his youth, the destruction of great cities and empires—those vast, geography-changing wars—then the slow atrophy of fond companions and one's own health, memory, personal history; all of life's implicit complexities, each profound and altering moment, condensed to a welling salty substance in his tired eyes.
Last words
So with the dusk's fast approach, I would take nothing away from the garden, except that impossible vacancy, that absence inside which still had the weight of another person — a gap which formed the countour of a singular, curious woman who never once beheld my true self.
This beautiful literary novel imagines Sherlock Holmes at age ninety-three. His phenomenal mental acuity diminishing and the emotional life he had always resisted pushing its way to the surface, the world's greatest detective is forced to confront the most baffling mystery of his career, that of the meaning and significance of his own inner life.
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