There are books, and then there are books.

One tome of books that will remain forever etched in my memory and which has had formative effects on me is the Sherlock Holmes series by Arthur Conan Doyle. Every now and then, I go back in time and space to 221 B Baker Street, dreamily living the life of Holmes–the master detective, the king among logicians, the wizard of problem solving.

Yes, he was cold. Yet he was not. His was a mind ruled by reason, and reason alone. He had no time for trivial emotions. His was a life dedicated to the pursuit of mastery in an art entirely of his own making, in a position entirely his own–”the only private consulting detective in the world”.

Obvious is the majesty of his temperament, the quick intuition, the almost magic-like quality of his presence, and the stunning power of his mental detachment; but yet, I have always sensed a reservoir of deep and riveting passion in his lifestyle and outlook.

Was he not the one who said

Work is the best antidote to sorrow.

and thereby proclaimed to the world perhaps the only known weapon to weather anguish and agony and sorrow? Was he not the one who said

The work is its own reward.

reflecting the austerity with which he pursued Karma yoga? Ye, indeed it is so.

Was he not ever rational, and in seeking to understand the mystery that is life, said:

Life is infinitely stranger than anything which the mind of man could invent.

The ways of fate are indeed hard to understand. If there is not some compensation hereafter, then the world is a cruel jest.

Your life is not your own. Keep your hands off it. [...] The example of patient suffering is in itself the most precious of all lessons to an impatient world.

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