And I'm glad I've been walking so much lately. That way I don't feel like a complete slug.
I failed to note Sherlock Holmes' birthday last week, but Neil Gaiman didn't. Fail to, that is. He linked to this article, which is basically good, except for the bit, ". . . for the idiot who won and lost the love of Irene Adler, 'the daintiest thing under a bonnet on this planet' and the only woman Holmes ever loved, referred to ever after as 'the woman.'" Which draws the boorishly simplistic yet sadly typical conclusion that Irene Adler was a sort of love interest for Holmes. Gods, Watson says right at the beginning of the story;
It was not that he felt any emotion akin to love for Irene Adler. All emotions, and that one particularly, were abhorrent to his cold, precise but admirably balanced mind. He was, I take it, the most perfect reasoning and observing machine that the world has seen, but as a lover he would have placed himself in a false position. He never spoke of the softer passions, save with a gibe and a sneer. They were admirable things for the observer–excellent for drawing the veil from men’s motives and actions. But for the trained reasoner to admit such intrusions into his own delicate and finely adjusted temperament was to introduce a distracting factor which might throw a doubt upon all his mental results.
Which is far more interesting! Don't we have enough romantic liaisons in the world of fiction? I mean, this is one of those things that reflect what's really interesting and great about Sherlock Holmes to me--his whole-hearted devotion to something that it is not instinctive for a human being to devote himself to.
Anyway, I should be drawing . . .