I Am A Brain, Watson. The Rest

There Is Nothing In Which Deduction Is So Necessary As In Religion," Said He, Leaning With His Back Against The Shutters. "it Can Be Built Up As An Exact Science By The Reasoner. Our Highest Assurance Of The Goodness Of Providence Seems To Me To Rest In The Flowers. All Other Things, Our Powers, Our Desires, Our Food, Are All Really Necessary For Our Existence In The First Instance. But This Rose Is An Extra. Its Smell And Its Colour Are An Embellishment Of Life, Not A Condition Of It. It Is Only Goodness Which Gives Extras, And So I Say Again That We Have Much To Hope From The Flowers.

Exactly. She Does Not Shine As A Wife Even In Her Own Account Of What Occurred. I Am Not A Whole-souled Admirer Of Womankind, As You Are Aware, Watson, But My Experience Of Life Has Taught Me That There Are Few Wives Having Any Regard For Their Husbands Who Would Let Any Man's Spoken Word Stand Between Them And That Husband's Dead Body. Should I Ever Marry, Watson, I Should Hope To Inspire My Wife With Some Feeling Which Would Prevent Her From Being Walked Off By A Housekeeper When My Corpse Was Lying Within A Few Yards Of Her.

I Cannot Live Without Brainwork. What Else Is There To Live For? Stand At The Window Here. Was Ever Such A Dreary, Dismal, Unprofitable World? See How The Yellow Fog Swirls Down The Street And Drifts Across The Duncoloured Houses. What Could Be More Hopelessly Prosaic And Material?

You Have Been In Afghanistan I Perceive.

Work Is The Best Antidote To Sorrow, My Dear Watson.