A Paper Written for School on the Topic of my Most Recent Literary Crush

So many remember Sherlock Holmes as first love. For some literally, for others merely literarily. The tall thin man with the hooked nose and this long fingers pressed together, eyes closed in thought. The quivering energy and the dizzying intellect. The dark, almost sinister, man we don't really understand, as seen by the friendly, commonplace man we know completely. And it's not just that we know him, it's that we are him. When it comes to Holmes, we are all simply Watson. We see the Man through a mist of myth and mystery. The living thing becomes the stuff of legend.

Why are we so enthralled with Sherlock Holmes? Where does he fit into our psyche? We do not identify with him, which is usually the basis of a truly great character. Quite the opposite, really. We are drawn to him because he is so foreign to us. All of his darkness and enigma and untouchability is what makes us love him.

There is a whole class of characters like him. From Jay Gatsby to The Doctor to Dr. Gregory House, we are compelled and enthralled (and in love) with what we do not understand. Which makes sense when you think about it. Why else would mystery novels (and movies, and television series) be so overwhelmingly popular. How else did Agatha Christie publish 66 mystery novels and 14 short story collections during her lifetime? Why are there more than 175 Nancy Drew novels and over three-hundred devoted to The Hardy Boys? Not to forget our Sherlock Holmes. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's short stories and novels about the detective are some of the most beloved, the most remembered, the most retold, and the most reinvented of all time. It's something we all, as human beings, have in common. To put it simply, we love a good mystery.

This is why plots like that of Doyle's “The Red-Headed League” fascinate us. Information is doled out to us in measured, teasing doses, stringing us along viciously. Yet willingly, obediently even, we eat it up, hungry for more. Through Doctor Watson's blind eyes, we see the same things Holmes does, but we understand nothing until we are told. We are frightened, what is coming? We are waiting in the dark with Watson, comforted by the presence of his revolver, straining to hear anything beyond the breathing of our companions, wracking our brains to attempt to understand what it is we are waiting for. We are disturbed at Holmes' description of the criminal, we wonder how it is he knows of him. We wait, holding our breath in childlike faith for the brilliant detective to reveal all to us. Then, to hear the name of the culprit, to learn how Sherlock solved the mystery. We realize how blind we truly were! How could we have not seen, how did we not also figure out the truth?

This is mystery. The question, the agonizing wait, the build in suspense, the revelation. Exposition, rising action, climax, denouement. Inching towards edge of our seat, relaxing again. This is why we love Sherlock Holmes.