I have always liked the figure of Sherlock Holmes, I have always found it virtually foolproof way of Arthur Conan Doyle - and yet, curiously, I had never read the first novel in which the detective appears, despite having read much of the rest especially the stories. Taking advantage of insomnia galloping, the Christmas holidays (we do not pretend that I had to study) and my beloved grandmother gave me the complete edition of all his works on Holmes, I certainly thrown headlong into reading A Study in Scarlet.
I think when you start to read a novel by Conan Doyle, as you may know the writer and his characters, as they can feel prepared, you have not ever really.
Suddenly, 30 seconds after I opened the book, I was not lying on my bed, buried under the shawl from Grandma Duck, but in the midst of Victorian London teeming with life and crime, and then, in a very short space of time it takes to turn a page, I was suddenly in the Far West, very confused and disoriented but completely absorbed. Finally, tossed back to London, 221b Baker Street, in my nostrils the smell of tobacco Holmes was replaced with that of the dust of the Holy Land.
Sometimes it makes me think that some books you risucchino so violent, morbid, inexplicable - almost sick - only touching them with your eyes. As if they own life and strength, I firmly believe that this is so, what was a fantasy girl just started with the wonders of reading has taken root in my brain to convince this young adult I've become that must be so.
Well, anyway, all the stories and novels about Sherlock Holmes have this effect, but A Study in Scarlet in particular. Moreover, besides being damn charming and evocative, as always amused me immensely groped to solve the case roughly mimicking the deductive method of Holmes (and promptly going to meet miserable failures).
But we are talking about Sherlock Holmes. How can you define this excellent mind, this post slim and agile, this pipe walking, this eye sharp, this irrepressible genius, this bad character, without using the key words, the only man who can sum up in a few syllables: "Perfect Character"? Yes I like to read, and I've read enough to recognize one when I see it. A perfect character, I say. And with "perfect", do not mean lovable, heroic, charming, etc. - that would be a bad character, as I see I. No: Sherlock Holmes is perfect because it is built with admirable (and I say, obsessive) accuracy, with stratospheric attention to every detail (nothing is left to chance), no one would think they would ever meet someone like Sherlock Holmes, but the feeling that I left is that with a good time machine and the right city I could have run into Sherlock Holmes in person. Not because in it the author has made particularly credible evidence, indeed, rather, because he knows everything, every detail of his day, every step of its reasoning. Usually not right away, we are given a chance - if one can say - to get there with our heads, until the end we know nothing of what he thinks Holmes while knowing how each move, but finally there is revealed every detail of what he thought (so we can feel greatly humiliated). And closing the book we know so much about him, we could easily believe that this really exists or has existed investigative consultant. But because of his genius, just because he is the perfect character, there would never dream of thinking that there might be someone even remotely like him.
All this - and wanting more - Arthur Conan Doyle is able to condense it without ever sacrificing them in a short novel, almost half of Holmes does not appear that either, because the workers from telling the story of Jefferson Hope. The murderess. This murderess, who is not just a dark spot, a symbol of "evil", which is around the margins of the novel, focusing instead on the "good" - no, none of this. Jefferson Hope is a deep character and defined, almost romantic in his adventurous and unfortunate life, in his boundless love and tragic in its relentless quest for revenge. One's purpose is in life, to avenge the death of his girlfriend, and that led him to pursue until the end. He died a few days later, as if providence, fate, or whoever he had been left just enough time to do his terrible revenge. As if, deep down, all side with him. I came naturally to her story moved me, I was impossible not to feel involved and touched by the inexhaustible power, the tenacity, all generated by love.
For the first time in my life, my romantic soul was met by a detective story.
I think it's great, but basically this is Arthur Conan Doyle: Always unpredictable, always impeccable, always engaging to a nervous breakdown (the player, of course). Also outstanding in every respect.
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