Holmes' stoicism teaches lesson
Ryan Luby
Issue date: 11/6/09 Section: Opinion
As a child, I loved Sherlock Holmes. Having relentlessly flipped through The Complete Works of Sir Conan Doyle so many times, I'm surprised my copy survives today.
No matter how many times I read "The Hound of the Baskervilles," I always gasped as Holmes identified the identity of Sir Baskerville's killer.
I was amazed by Holmes' calm demeanor and his impressive ability to sort through options when immersed in terrifying circumstances.
In elementary school, I learned a fancy name to describe how Sherlock discovered a criminal's identity from a few bits of information - the scientific method. In fact, my third grade teacher, Mrs. Eloise Sylla, told me that Holmes was among the first popular figures to employ the six step formula starting with a question and ending with results.
So impressed was I with Sherlock's exploits that I trooped through my entire third grade year with a magnifying glass tucked under my belt, always on the lookout for suspicious activity.
My parents encouraged my enthusiasm for Holmes's deductive prowess, and my father often entertained me with logic puzzles. After picking me up from school one October afternoon, he presented me with a particularly difficult brain teaser.
"Two men and two women sit in four seats. The two women have to sit next to each other. In how many possible combinations can these four people sit?" As I pondered how Sherlock Holmes would attack this cognitive dilemma, the ring of my father's cell phone interrupted.
"Twelve!" I exclaimed as I turned to face my father. So lost had I been in his puzzle that I hadn't noticed my father's ashen expression. Instead of responding with his typical exuberance, he leaned forward and told the driver, "Clifton Road, quickly." Reaching into the back seat, my father grabbed a bag with a red cross stamped across its side. As we approached Clifton Road-Karachi's busiest street-the sound of sirens grew louder.
Our car ground to a halt beside a Toyota Four Runner with a Union Texas decal stamped on its passenger's side door. With stethoscope in hand, my father leaped from our car and pulled the Four Runner's back door open. I peered past his side and caught my breath in horror. Four men sat stricken in the car's two back rows, each with a bullet through his forehead. As my father checked each man's pulse, I broke down, terrified and in shock.
Seeing those four Union Texas employees forever changed how I perceived my childhood hero-Sherlock Holmes. That October afternoon showed me the utter absurdity of Sir Conan Doyle's character. Whereas, eleven years removed, fear still surges through me when I recall the men's stricken bodies, Doyle portrays Sherlock Holmes as a man who invariably faces death in a mechanistic, removed manner. Had Doyle seen empty stares like those that I saw in the Four Runner's back seats, he never would have painted a character so stoic in the face of death.
No matter how many times I read "The Hound of the Baskervilles," I always gasped as Holmes identified the identity of Sir Baskerville's killer.
I was amazed by Holmes' calm demeanor and his impressive ability to sort through options when immersed in terrifying circumstances.
In elementary school, I learned a fancy name to describe how Sherlock discovered a criminal's identity from a few bits of information - the scientific method. In fact, my third grade teacher, Mrs. Eloise Sylla, told me that Holmes was among the first popular figures to employ the six step formula starting with a question and ending with results.
So impressed was I with Sherlock's exploits that I trooped through my entire third grade year with a magnifying glass tucked under my belt, always on the lookout for suspicious activity.
My parents encouraged my enthusiasm for Holmes's deductive prowess, and my father often entertained me with logic puzzles. After picking me up from school one October afternoon, he presented me with a particularly difficult brain teaser.
"Two men and two women sit in four seats. The two women have to sit next to each other. In how many possible combinations can these four people sit?" As I pondered how Sherlock Holmes would attack this cognitive dilemma, the ring of my father's cell phone interrupted.
"Twelve!" I exclaimed as I turned to face my father. So lost had I been in his puzzle that I hadn't noticed my father's ashen expression. Instead of responding with his typical exuberance, he leaned forward and told the driver, "Clifton Road, quickly." Reaching into the back seat, my father grabbed a bag with a red cross stamped across its side. As we approached Clifton Road-Karachi's busiest street-the sound of sirens grew louder.
Our car ground to a halt beside a Toyota Four Runner with a Union Texas decal stamped on its passenger's side door. With stethoscope in hand, my father leaped from our car and pulled the Four Runner's back door open. I peered past his side and caught my breath in horror. Four men sat stricken in the car's two back rows, each with a bullet through his forehead. As my father checked each man's pulse, I broke down, terrified and in shock.
Seeing those four Union Texas employees forever changed how I perceived my childhood hero-Sherlock Holmes. That October afternoon showed me the utter absurdity of Sir Conan Doyle's character. Whereas, eleven years removed, fear still surges through me when I recall the men's stricken bodies, Doyle portrays Sherlock Holmes as a man who invariably faces death in a mechanistic, removed manner. Had Doyle seen empty stares like those that I saw in the Four Runner's back seats, he never would have painted a character so stoic in the face of death.
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