Some actors fear if they play Sherlock Holmes for a very long run the character will steal their soul, leave no corner for the original inhabitant.
Jeremy Brett
See how it glints and sparkles! Every good stone
is a nucleus of crime, every facet a bloody deed.
Oh yes, the hither-thither razor zips from crown
to culet! Quite so. But what may be said of the bullet,
which has struck the windowframe, just here?
What of the extra glass, and the shorn-off fire iron?
The facts, now, just the facts. We have a body,
and a murderer. Who, then, was our third drinker?
Who is our guest, who smokes without a holder,
who paces as he waits, and rubs his hands together?
Whose is the greatcoat, whose the bloody print
on the newel post? Whose the multi-tool knife
that nicked the bellrope? Who is this black streak,
this jackal, this jewel thief? And who, who is it
who coughs in the attic room? Let us fall back
on the old axiom. But tell me, my dear Watson,
who is this lean thing in the sanatorium,
with the door fastened from the inner side?
Tell me the truth now. Do you not think it
a most singular and whimsical conundrum?
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