Come, Watson, Come!" He Cried. The Game

His Incredible Untidiness, His Addiction To Music At Strange Hours, His Occasional Revolver Practice Within Doors, His Weird And Often Malodorous Scientific Experiments, And The Atmosphere Of Violence And Danger Which Hung Around Him Made Him The Very Worst Tenant In London.

I Cannot Live Without Brainwork. What Else Is There To Live For? Stand At The Window Here. Was Ever Such A Dreary, Dismal, Unprofitable World? See How The Yellow Fog Swirls Down The Street And Drifts Across The Duncoloured Houses. What Could Be More Hopelessly Prosaic And Material?

Work Is The Best Antidote To Sorrow, My Dear Watson.

...while The Individual Man Is An Insoluble Puzzle, In The Aggregate He Becomes A Mathematical Certainty.

It Is A Capital Mistake To Theorize Before You Have All The Evidence. It Biases The Judgment.