Fred's Book Club: Elementary Psychology?

Greetings, friends, and welcome to another Wednesday and another Hump Day episode of the Humpback Writers, where no writers have humps but all their books have backs.

This week's book answers a question from correspondent Mr. Philbin: "Are you EVER going to feature a book that anyone has heard of?" To which I answer: Okay, sure. Seriously, most of the time those books have enough exposure and don't need me to shed light on them. But why not? Here we go.

The Seven-Per-Cent Solution, a Sherlock Holmes novel by Nicholas Meyer, ought to make Mr. Philbin happy, as it has sold two million copies since publication in 1974. The author also wrote the screenplay for the movie version, which led Meyer to an Oscar nomination and a brilliant career in film -- not to mention three more Sherlock Holmes novels.

I saw the 1976 film on TV before I read the book, and enjoyed it quite a bit. I picked up the novel years later and found I liked it even better. I was surprised to have enjoyed them so much, since by the time I came to them Sherlock Holmes adventures, adaptations, parodies, and pastiches had been just about run into the ground by every writer since Conan Doyle first put pen to paper, as chronicled brilliantly by author and fellow Bleatnik Bill Peschel (himself a writer of Holmes stories). Whether done straight or for laughs, I feared that Holmes had been done to death even before Meyer got hold of him.

And yet, this book, well written in Dr. Watson's style, hangs on an irresistible peg: What if Sherlock Holmes's well-known cocaine habit -- Holmes was quoted in a Conan Doyle story as injecting himself with a seven-percent solution of cocaine, thus the title -- was a symptom and expression of his descent into madness? What if he was losing his grip on reality? What if his arch nemesis Moriarty, the Napoleon of crime, was... just a guy?

Moriarty twisted round in his chair and screwed up his blue eyes in my direction. "Dr. Watson, your friend is persuaded that I am some sort of--" he groped for the words-- "criminal mastermind. Of the most depraved order," he added with a helpless shrug, throwing up his hands. "Now I ask you, sir; in all honesty -- can you see in me the remotest trappings of such an individual?"
     There seemed almost no point in saying I could not.
     "But what is to be done?" the little man pursued with a whine. "I know that your friend is a good man -- all England resounds with his praise. But, in my case, he has made some ghastly mistake and I have become his unfortunate victim."

And what if this prompted Dr. Watson to engage in a clever ruse to get his friend into the care of the one doctor on the continent dedicated to healing the broken mind -- the controversial Dr. Sigmund Freud?

Watson induces Holmes into following Moriarty to Vienna. Holmes does not know where the "villain" is going, but tracks him using noted bloodhound Toby and a bottle of vanilla extract. I have wondered many times in the years since I read this book whether this method would actually work. Nevertheless, Holmes follows the trail and winds up in the office of the physician Freud, where he goes right into his act:

Holmes eyed him coldly.
     "Beyond the fact that you are a brilliant Jewish physician who was born in Hungary and studied for a time in Paris, and that some radical theories of yours have alienated the respectable medical community so that you have severed your connections with various hospitals and branches of the medical fraternity -- beyond the fact that you have ceased to practice medicine as a result, I can deduce little. You are married, possess a sense of honour, and enjoy playing cards and reading Shakespeare and a Russian author whose name I am unable to pronounce. I can say little besides that will be of interest to you."
     Freud stared at Holmes for a moment in utter shock. Then, suddenly, he broke into a smile -- and this came as another surprise to me, for it was a child-like expression of awe and pleasure.
     "But this is wonderful!" he exclaimed.
     "Commonplace," was the reply. 

Holmes explains the little clues that led his keen observation to these deductions. In time he is persuaded to be put under the care of Freud.

As for the rest? Well, there's a kidnapping case and some jolly good Mitteleuropean intrigue, and a lovely lady and a terrific chase and such, and that doesn't matter. Really, the book is a blast, and the fun of seeing the real Freud rendered vividly and Holmes in his element (although a little nuts) is well worth the price of admission. Since the book was published, Freud's reputation as a scientist has taken a beating, but put that on the back burner for the sake of the yarn.

So there, Mr. Philbin!

P.S.: Allow me to recommend Bill Peschel's own mixture of Sherlock Holmes and reality, Sherlock Holmes & Mark Twain: The Adventure of the Whyos. Bill proves that there's still a rich vein of story in Holmes yet, for a writer with the talent to mine it.