[On writing more Sherlock Holmes stories.] ‘I don’t care whether you do or not,’ said Bram. ‘But you will, eventually. He’s yours, till death do you part. Did you really think he was dead and gone when you wrote “The Final Problem”? I don’t think you did. I think you always knew he’d be back. But whenever you take up your pen and continue, heed my advice. Don’t bring him here. Don’t bring Sherlock Holmes into the electric light. Leave him in the mysterious and romantic flicker of the gas lamp. He won’t stand next to this, do you see? The glare would melt him away. He was more the man of our time than Oscar was. Or than we were. Leave him where he belongs, in the last days of our bygone century. Because in a hundred years, no one will care about me. Or you. Or Oscar. We stopped caring about Oscar years ago, and we were his bloody *friends.* No, what they’ll remember are the stories. They’ll remember Holmes. And Watson. And Dorian Gray.
Graham MooreLook, I get it. I’m a white, heterosexual man. It’s really easy for me to say, ‘Oh, wow, wasn’t the nineteenth century terrific?’ But try this. Imagine the scene: It’s pouring rain against a thick window. Outside, on Baker Street, the light from the gas lamps is so weak that it barely reaches the pavement. A fog swirls in the air, and the gas gives it a pale yellow glow. Mystery brews in every darkened corner, in every darkened room. And a man steps out into that dim, foggy world, and he can tell you the story of your life by the cut of your shirtsleeves. He can shine a light into the dimness, with only his intellect and his tobacco smoke to help him. Now. Tell me that’s not awfully romantic?
Graham MooreArthur looked deeply into the boy’s clear blue eyes and scanned the contours of his handsome face. Arthur could hear something, faintly, in the distance. A rushing sound. A crash of water against rock. He wasn’t sure if it was real or not, but he heard it all the same. Torrents of water rushing over a cliff. He tuned his ears to the noise and recognized the tone. He steadied his hand and listened to the sound, from the back of his mind, of the Reichenbach Falls.
Graham MooreIn the darkest corner of a darkened room, all Sherlock Homes stories begin. In the pregnant dim of gaslight and smoke, Holmes would sit, digesting the day's papers, puffing on his long pipe, injecting himself with cocaine. He would pop smoke rings into the gloom, waiting for something, anything, to pierce into the belly of his study and release the promise of adventure; of clues to interpret; of, at last he would plead, a puzzle he could not solve. And after each story he would return here, into the dark room, and die day by day of boredom. The darkness of his study was his cage, but also the womb of his genius.
Graham MooreMots clés mystery arthur-conan-doyle holmes sherlock sherlockian
Murder was so trivial in the stories Harold loved. Dead bodies were plot points, puzzles to be reasoned out. They weren't brothers. Plot points didn't leave behind grieving sisters who couldn't find their shoes.
Graham MooreMots clés doyle mystery holmes sherlock arthur conan sherlockian
On Westminster Bridge, Arthur was struck by the brightness of the streetlamps running across like a formation of stars. They shone white against the black coats of the marching gentlefold and fuller than the moon against the fractal spires of Westminster. They were, Arthur quickly realized, the new electric lights, which the city government was installing, avenue by avenue, square by square, in place of the dirty gas lamps that had lit London's public spaces for a century. These new electric ones were brighter. They were cheaper. They required less maintenance. And they shone farther into the dime evening, exposing every crack in the pavement, every plump turtle sheel of stone underfoot. So long to the faint chiaroscuro of London, to the ladies and gentlemen in black-on-black relief. So long to the era of mist and carbonized Newcastle coal, to the stench of the Blackfriars foundry. Welcome to the cleasing glare of the twentieth century.
Graham MooreMots clés sherlock-holmes mystery arthur-conan-doyle sherlockian
Arthur had never challenged a man to a duel, but in this moment he understood the magnificent reasonableness of the tradition. It was either that or slugging him outright this very second, which didn't seem nearly so gentlemanly.
Graham MooreLove grew commendably dependable - love was eggs, love was ham, love was the morning paper.
Graham MoorePressant le pas, il atteignit l'ascenseur pratiquement au galop. Une curieuse sensation remonta de ses mollets à ses genoux. Non qu'il en eût fait l'expérience récemment mais en y réfléchissant, il se dit que cela devait s'appeler "courir".
Graham MooreMots clés humourous-situations
- "L'homme n'est rien, l'oeuvre tout". C'est là que vous voulez en venir ?
- Oui. C'est de Flaubert, n'est-ce pas ?
- Oui.
- Et nous nous le rappelons encore.
Bram rit de nouveau amèrement.
- Mes histoires, dit Arthur. La science de la déduction. Le détective qui raisonne. La solution livrée fort à propos dans un dénouement satisfaisant. Tout ça, c'est des conneries.
Bram sourit.
- Je sais, dit-il. C'est pour cela que nous en avons besoin.
Mots clés fiction-writing
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