Classical Fiction: Being Alive Doesn’t Mean Being Real by Mary

Classical Fiction: Being Alive Doesn’t Mean Being Real by Mary - April 2014 Scholarship Essay

It’s raining outside. It rains often here. The fire crackles in the fireplace, the sound of papers rustling. Occasionally there is music from a violin in this place. However there is no indulging in that today, for we are in state of deep thought. A state so deep it’s almost as physically present as the tobacco smoke drifting through the air. Our state of undisturbed concentration is owed to the new mystery that lays before us. The cups of tea that had been brought sit untouched and lukewarm.

With a sudden upward pull of the lips, he has figured it out and solved the mystery. Of course, there was never doubt he wouldn’t. We wait for our companion to come clean and explain. I wait for the ending. He begins his tale, slowly unwinding the events and revealing the clues. The explanation has left the air in the room awestruck.

In the realm of classic literature one certain consulting detective is unavoidable, and that man is Sherlock Holmes. My life and his could not be anymore different, and yet the connection I feel with him is nearly tangible. Although he shows no love particular love for women, he treats me as warmly as a beloved niece. I am allowed on his adventures, welcomed in 221b Baker Street, rewarded by resting at the fireside.

My fictitious uncle has driven me and helped me achieve goals I could not have come to without him. He has taught me that I must always look deeper. When faced with a problem I must look past what I see and find the true answer. When it comes to people I've learned to never trust my first assumptions, because the kindest face can house great evil, and the darkest individual may have the brightest soul. Even his violin playing created in me great desire to play music, and my beloved bassoon owes him a gratitude for no longer sitting on a dusty shelf.

Nearly two years ago my mother passed away, and I was alone in my devistation for months. Were it not for Mr. Holmes I would have suffered greatly. I found solace in the old flat, listening to the London sounds, and breathing in Mrs. Hudson's comforting perfume with each consoling hug, every joke between Mr. Watson and I, and absolutely every moment in Sherlock's presence. They helped me mourn my mother, and grow stronger in the end. Even now when I find myself fighting off depression, I take a visit.

Everyday I aspire to the greatness of Sherlock Holmes. I practice my deduction skills, in school and in regards to social situations, and they have grown in the past years to a point where I believe I am a good judge of character. I work hard to play my bassoon well, taking every chance to play more. I also write as often as I can, almost as a nod to Doyle, hoping I can also one day create a character to inspire others.