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兔灰灰的小窝

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福尔摩斯探案全集--四签名  

2012-02-17 22:24:07|  分类: 原著欣赏 |  标签: |举报 |字号 订阅

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The Sign of Four

                       by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle  

小说:四签名 - 兔灰灰 - 兔灰灰的小窝

 

You know, too, what a black reaction comes upon you. Surely the game is hardly worth the candle. Why should you, for a mere passing pleasure, risk the loss of those great powers with which you have been endowed?

 

The work itself, the pleasure of finding a field for my peculiar powers, is my highest reward.

 

Detection is, or ought to be, an exact science and should be treated in the same cold and unemotional manner.

 

Eliminate all other factors, and the one which remains must be the truth.

 

What could be more hopelessly prosaic and material? What is the use of having powers, Doctor, when one has no field upon which to exert them? Crime is commonplace, existence is commonplace, and no qualities save those which are commonplace have any function upon earth.

 

“It is of the first importance,” he cried, “not to allow your judgment to be biased by personal qualities.

The emotional qualities are antagonistic to clear reasoning.

I never make exceptions. An exception disproves the rule.

 

A warm wind blew from the westward, and heavy clouds moved slowly across the sky, with half a moon peeping occasionally through the rifts.

 

How sweet the morning air is! See how that one little cloud floats like a pink feather from some gigantic flamingo.

 

How small we feel with our petty ambitions and strivings in the presence of the great elemental forces of Nature!

 

It is that the chief proof of man’s real greatness lies in his perception of his own smallness.

 

The main thing with people of that sort,” said Holmes as we sat in the sheets of the wherry, “is never to let them think that their information can be of the slightest importance to you. If you do they will instantly shut up like an oyster. If you listen to them under protest, as it were, you are very likely to get what you want.

 

I was limp and weary, befogged in mind and fatigued in body.

 

He took up his violin from the corner, and as I stretched myself out he began to play some low, dreamy, melodious air — his own, no doubt, for he had a remarkable gift for improvisation. I have a vague remembrance of his gaunt limbs, his earnest face and the rise and fall of his bow. Then I seemed to be floated peacefully away upon a soft sea of sound until I found myself in dreamland, with the sweet face of Mary Morstan looking down upon me.

 

One of our greatest statesmen has said that a change of work is the best rest.

 

You can, for example, never foretell what any one man will do, but you can say with precision what an average number will be up to. Individuals vary, but percentages remain constant. So says the statistician.

 

I’ve had ups in my life, and I‘ve had downs, but I’ve learned not to cry over spilled milk.

 

When the troubles broke out he would be friends both with the lion and the tiger — with the sepoy and with the Company’s raj.

 

I thought of it by day and I nursed it by night.

 

But love is an emotional thing, and whatever is emotional is opposed to that true cold reason which I place above all things. I should never marry myself, lest I bias my judgment.

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