According to Google, today is Arthur Conan Doyle’s birthday. Where would I be without Google? And where would we be without Arthur Conan Doyle? Perhaps not using the pun, “Arnold Conan Doyle”. Perhaps not saying, “No Shit, Sherlock”. Or, “Keep digging, Watson”.
Where? In a world without mirth, that’s where. And a world without information. Since Google invented information in 1996 things have changed tremendously for the better for millions around the world. And, as I have often said while holding forth at the local pub, my ale swill before me in frothy glass, almost as blind as my compatriots’ beaming, as I’m bearing words up like the smith of them I sometimes am, I never cared to read past Doyle.
Who would dare? In him I found the zenith of all literary endeavour. The crux of fiction. The nemisis of modernism and its intemperate boyhood trickery. Its petulant claim of a failing world. No, you can keep your James J. Joyces and your T. S. S. Eliots. I’ve found the seat of narrative delight. Its name is Doyle.
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