Sir Arthur Conan Doyle named so many characters James.
James was his go to name like really he named Moriarty’s brother James.
Let me rephrase that, he named James Moriarty’s brother James Moriarty.
He really gave zero fucks
In The Man With The Twisted Lip, Mary called John ‘James’.
Are you fucking kidding me
ACD gave less fucks than you do
It’s always adorable when someone else figures out how very little Doyle cared about Sherlock Holmes.
Snakes drink milk, right? Whatever. Watson got married in … 1888. Or 1889. Or maybe 1887. Who cares. Mary Morstan was an orphan who spent a lot of time visiting her mother. Does Holmes laugh a) frequently b) infrequently c) only when he’s caught a criminal d) all of the above? Who cares, we’re on deadline and I’m broke. One story takes place both in the middle of summer and in October.
Does Holmes know about anything non-essential to his work? No. Does he know the Polyphonic Motets of Lassus and spend his free time deciphering medieval palimpsests? Yes. In Study in Scarlet he doesn’t know who Thomas Carlyle is and in the Sign of Four he quotes him.
And this still led to the first modern fandom and over a century of extremely devoted readers.
Some of the devotion is because it’s confusing - people have spent way too much time trying to come up with chronologies (summarized by the amazing spacefall here). Maybe universes with more flaws naturally attract more fans, because there’s more room for interpretation and addition and filling in the gaps. It seems to work for Star Trek and the X Files and Harry Pottter. (And Greek mythology, if we want to talk about non-modern fandoms)
It should be maddening, but it really isn’t - it feels like opportunity. I really love the contradiction here, both the tiny contradictions within canon that make everything more interesting, and the larger contradiction of a character disliked by his creator but so brilliantly drawn. It makes one feel as if the reason everything works so well regardless is due to some actual animating spirit from the characters themselves. Sherlock Holmes is certainly more real to most people now than anyone who was actually alive at the time.
Or possibly I’m a little overly spiritual from lack of sleep. But I find it wonderful for some reason that 100 years after Doyle gave us that utterly indifferent permission we’re still marrying him, murdering him, and doing anything we like to him.
Why do we not discuss clouds more?
I mean look at that. That’s water.
LIKE WHAT THE FUCK, WHY DO WE EVER STOP TALKING ABOUT THIS
WHAT IS THIS
HOW IS THIS EVEN
AND NOW THE FLYING WATER IS EATING A MOUNTAIN
GOD DAMN, WHAT
This is my favorite post on Tumblr.