Sherlock Holmes Probability Quotes

It is more than possible; it is probable.

Watson: "You may be right." Holmes: "The probability lies in that direction.

Between the ages of ten and fifteen in St. Petersburg, I must have read more fiction and poetry—English, Russian and French—than in any other five-year period of my life. I relished especially the works of Wells, Poe, Browning, Keats, Flaubert, Verlaine, Rimbaud, Chekhov, Tolstoy, and Alexander Blok. On another level, my heroes were the Scarlet Pimpernel, Phileas Fogg, and Sherlock Holmes. In other words, I was a perfectly normal trilingual child in a family with a large library. At a later period, in Western Europe, between the ages of 20 and 40, my favorites were Housman, Rupert Brooke, Norman Douglas, Bergson, Joyce, Proust, and Pushkin. Of these top favorites, several—Poe, Jules Verne, Emmuska Orezy, Conan Doyle, and Rupert Brooke—have lost the glamour and thrill they held for me. The others remain intact and by now are probably beyond change as far as I am concerned.

It is good to have beliefs, do not misunderstand me. But if you think you are absolutely right about something, my son, about anything... Then you probably aren't. Human beings are not god. We were cast from the Garden of Eden when we tried to be. We are all imperfect, but if we are wise, we learn every day.

Anna held up a small black-bound memorandum book. Cordelia hadn’t even seen her retrieve it. They strode out of the bedroom, Anna waving the book over her head in triumph. “This,” she announced, “will hold the answers to all our questions.” Matthew looked up, his eyes fever-bright. “Is this your list of conquests?” “Of course not,” Anna declared. “It’s a memorandum book… about my conquests. That is an important but meaningful distinction.” Anna flipped through the book. There were many pages, and many names written in a bold, sprawling hand. “Hmm, let me see. Katherine, Alicia, Virginia—a very promising writer, you should look out for her work, James—Mariane, Virna, Eugenia—” “Not my sister Eugenia?” Thomas nearly upended his cake. “Oh, probably not,” Anna said. “Laura, Lily… ah, Hypatia. Well, it was a brief encounter, and I suppose you might say she seduced me.…” “Well, that hardly seems fair,” said James. “Like someone solving a case before Sherlock Holmes. If I were you I would feel challenged, as if to a duel.” Matthew chuckled. Anna gave James a dark look. “I know what you’re trying to do,” she said. “Is it working?” said James. “Possibly,” said Anna, regarding the book. Cordelia couldn’t help but wonder: Was Ariadne’s name in there? Was she considered a conquest now, or something—someone—else?

think that it is most probable that Beddoes, pushed to desperation and believing himself to have been already betrayed, had revenged himself upon Hudson, and had fled from the country with as much money as he could lay his hands on. Those are the facts of the case, Doctor, and if they are of any use to your

You have probably never heard of Professor Moriarty?” said he. “Never.

I told you it was a backwoods. They probably still practice corn sacrifice.

uno debe amueblar el pequeño ático de su cerebro con todo lo que es probable que vaya a utilizar, y que el resto puede dejarlo guardado en el desván de la biblioteca, de donde puede sacarlo si lo necesita.

Digo ahora, como dije entonces, que toda persona debería tener en el ático de su cerebro el surtido de mobiliario que es probable que necesite, y que todo lo demás puede guardarlo en el desván de su biblioteca, donde puede echarle mano cuando tenga precisión de algo.

What would she know about God anyway? The personification of her God, Holmes figured, was surely the popular one: a wrinkled old man sitting omnisciently upon a throne of gold, reigning over creation from within puffy clouds, speaking both graciously and commandingly at the same instant. Her God, no doubt, wore a flowing beard. For Holmes, it was amusing to think that Mrs. Munro's Creator probably looked somewhat like himself- except her God existed as a figment of imagination, and he did not (at least not entirely, he reasoned).

They are coming from work in the yard.” “Dirty-looking rascals, but I suppose every one has some little immortal spark concealed about him. You would not think it, to look at them. There is no a priori probability about it. A strange enigma is man!” “Some one calls him a soul concealed in an animal,” I suggested. “Winwood Reade is good upon the subject,” said Holmes. “He remarks that, while the individual man is an insoluble puzzle, in the aggregate he becomes a mathematical certainty. 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. But do I see a handkerchief? Surely there is a white flutter over yonder.

…the two chatting surreptitiously as a procession of priests, musicians, and locals dressed like demons paraded down the street: the men hoisting erect wooden phalluses, the women embracing smaller carved penises swathed in red paper, the spectators touching the tips of passing phalluses to ensure good health for their children. “How remarkable,” commented Holmes. “I thought you might find this of interest,” said Mr Umezaki. Holmes grinned slyly. “My friend, I suspect this is much more to your liking than mine.” “You’re probably right,” agreed Mr Umezaki, smiling while his fingertips reached out for an oncoming phallus.

Come along, Doctor,” he said: “we shall go and look him up. I’ll tell you one thing which may help you in the case,” he continued, turning to the two detectives. “There has been murder done, and the murderer was a man. He was more than six feet high, was in the prime of life, had small feet for his height, wore coarse, square-toed boots and smoked a Trichinopoly cigar. He came here with his victim in a four-wheeled cab, which was drawn by a horse with three old shoes and one new one on his off fore-leg. In all probability the murderer had a florid face, and the finger-nails of his right hand were remarkably long. These are only a few indications, but they may assist you.” Lestrade and Gregson glanced at each other with an incredulous smile. “If this man was murdered, how was it done?” asked the former. “Poison,” said Sherlock Holmes curtly, and strode off. “One other thing, Lestrade,” he added, turning round at the door: “ ‘Rache,’ is the German for ‘revenge’; so don’t lose your time looking for Miss Rachel.” With which Parthian shot he walked away, leaving the two rivals open mouthed behind him.

You know what's weird?" David said as Stevie was lost in thought. "What's weird is making a hobby out of the death of your classmate. You know what's also weird? Going through people's rooms, including the room of your dead classmate. Because you seem crazy." People might be dismissive of someone obsessed with mystery stories, as if the line between fiction and reality was so distinct. They didn't know, perhaps, that Sherlock Holmes was based on a a real man, Dr. Joseph Bell, and that the methods Arthur Conan Doyle created for his fictional detective inspired generations of real-world detectives. Did they know that Arthur Conan Doyle went on to investigate mysteries in his real life and even absolved a man of a crime for which he had been convicted? Did they know how Agatha Christie brilliantly staged her own disappearance in order to exact an elegant revenge on a cheating husband? They probably did not. And no one was going to discount Stevie Bell, who had gotten into this school on the wings of her interest in the Ellingham case, and who had been a bystander at a death that was now looking more and more suspicious. She was not crazy. And Hayes's key was in her pocket and Pix was on her way back. Stevie turned away and left David's room without saying anything else. Because she was also not going to let him see her cry.

You probably know what Sherlock Holmes had to say about inference, the most famous thing he ever said that wasn’t “Elementary!”: “It is an old maxim of mine that when you have excluded the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.” Doesn’t that sound cool, reasonable, indisputable? But it doesn’t tell the whole story. What Sherlock Holmes should have said was: “It is an old maxim of mine that when you have excluded the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth, unless the truth is a hypothesis it didn’t occur to you to consider.” Less pithy, more correct. The

Susannah tells me that crime scene investigation is all the rage on television these days. I picture Sherlock Holmes bending over a corpse with his magnifying glass. Holmes’ magnifying glass, that is. The corpse probably wouldn’t have one.

The origin of heroin – and of morphine; and laudanum, Edgar Allan Poe’s habit; and pantopon, the drug popular in addict society back in the 1920s; and Demerol, Hermann Goering’s happiness pills; and paregoric; and the codeine that Sherlock Holmes used to cool down his cocaine habit – is the opium poppy. This is probably the most accursed and hated plant in the world, and has been creating addicts in both the East and the West since the dawn of civilization.

I stared out the window, wondering what on earth had ever possessed me to confide in Sherlock Holmes. Actually, I had been hoping that my revealing my innermost thoughts and wishes to Holmes would lead to his being more comfortable with sharing his own. I should have tried squeezing lemonade from a rock. I would probably have been blessed with greater success.

I—I don’t wish to go either. I adore Miss Lucinda and Master Carlisle—they are such lovely children. But I’m not getting any younger.” “I understand,” he said again, and wondered whether there was anything he could do to cushion his children from this blow. “Unless, that is, my lord, you wish to—” She looked up now, her eyes imploring. He stared back at her, half in incomprehension, half in . . . all too much comprehension. Dear God, Holmes would probably have seen where this was going while Miss Yarmouth was still on the other side of the door.

He woke up to the sight of Holmes sitting in a chair, her head bent. He didn’t get too many opportunities to study her closely. Even when they found themselves in physical proximity, there was still the matter of her unnerving, sometimes all-seeing gaze. With something of a shock he realized that after the near misadventure the night before, what he wanted was for her to raise her face and settle thatexact unnerving, sometimes all-seeing gaze upon him. He opened his mouth to speak and closed it again. He’d almost asked her what she was reading, but she wasn’t reading. She was knitting. He sat up to make sure he wasn’t dreaming. “What are you knitting?” The question he really wanted to ask was You knit? But that would probably net him only a blank stare, the thought of which made him smile on the inside. She looked up, wearing her usual expression of utter serenity. “A cozy for a hot water bottle.” A what? He laughed. All at once he could see her as a plump, white-haired old woman with a half-finished muffler on her lap, her grandmotherly demeanor fooling all those who didn’t know her. Maybe he’d suffered too much last night and gone a little cracked, but he felt an extraordinary glee at the image in his head.

Besides,' he added, his voice muffled now by the undercarriage, 'a renowned bachelor such as myself, you probably would be more of an embarrassment were you a boy.' There really was no possible response to that statement.

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