Of All Ruins, That Of A Noble

Life, My Dear Watson, Is Infinitely Stranger Than Fiction; Stranger Than Anything Which The Mind Of Man Could Invent. We Could Not Conceive The Things That Are Merely Commonplace To Existence. If We Could Hover Over This Great City, Remove The Roofs, And Peep In At The Things Going On, It Would Make All Fiction, With Its Conventionalities And Foreseen Conclusions Flat, Stale And Unprofitable.

The Emotional Qualities Are Antagonistic To Clear Reasoning.

From A Drop Of Water A Logician Could Infer The Possibility Of An Atlantic Or A Niagara Without Having Seen Or Heard Of One Or The Other.

I Said That He Was My Superior In Observation And Deduction. If The Art Of The Detective Began And Ended In Reasoning From An Armchair, My Brother Would Be The Greatest Criminal Agent That Ever Lived. But He Has No Ambition And No Energy. He Will Not Even Go Out Of His Way To Verify His Own Solutions, And Would Rather Be Considered Wrong Than Take The Trouble To Prove Himself Right.

Far Away On The Path We Saw Sir Henry Looking Back, His Face White In The Moonlight, His Hands Raised In Horror, Glaring Helplessly At The Frightful Thing Which Was Hunting Him Down. But That Cry Of Pain From The Hound Had Blown All Our Fears To The Winds. If He Was Vulnerable He Was Mortal, And If We Could Wound Him We Could Kill Him. Never Have I Seen A Man Run As Holmes Ran That Night.