...Holmes, who loathed every form of society with his whole Bohemian soul, remained in our lodgings in Baker Street, buried among his old books, and alternating from week to week between cocaine and ambition, the drowsiness of the drug, and the fierce energy of his own keen nature.

I can never bring you to realize the importance of sleeves, the suggestiveness of thumb-nails, or the great issues that may hang from a boot-lace.

You know my method. It is founded upon the observation of trifles.

I know, my dear Watson, that you share my love of all that is bizarre and outside the conventions and humdrum routine of daily life.

It is with nations as it is with individuals. A book of history is a book of sermons.

Excellent!" I cried. "Elementary," said he.

I fear that if the matter is beyond humanity, it is certainly beyond me.