Watson, come here. I need you

Much of what we know of the dictionary writer, Samuel Johnson, is as a result of the uncommon biography, Life of Johnson, by James Boswell. Quoting actual conversations and including details Boswell personally observed, the biography was much more lifelike to the readers. Boswell was a friend of Johnson’s, they’d traveled together, wined and dined together and Boswell had years during which to observe the man.

I think having a biographer would be fantastic, but only when they do hold some admiration for the subject, even a fictional subject. I doubt anyone would have wanted to read about Sherlock Holmes if he’d been viewed by someone who described him as a show-off know-it-all. Instead, Holmes had a very dear friend tell the tales, a friend who did not shy away from pointing out the Great Detective’s foibles, the seven percent solution in which Holmes indulged was cocaine, the three-pipe problems, etc. Those bullet holes in the shape of a “V” on the fireplace wall weren’t done to honor Queen Victoria at a time when Sherlock was well rested and feeling his best, but during a time when he wrestled with internal demons. These excesses offset the “brilliant” deductions and give us, as readers of the stories, a much better view of a flawed genius who fought past his personal fiends.

I believe I’d best step up my efforts to add more interesting items to my to-do list and then begin crossing them off. Just in case I have a Boswell or a Watson out there. Somewhere.