Another reinterpretation, because I can’t seem to control myself.
Sherlock, light of my conduction, best man I ever knew. My friend, my hero. Sher-lock: puckered lips hiss of breath, the tip of the tongue taking a step down to tap at the teeth, then back to the palate in an unvoiced click. Sher. Lock.
He was Sherlock, plain Sherlock, in the morning, standing six feet even in a bespoke suit (never bothered to sleep). He was Freak at the Met. He was Fake Genius in the papers. He was Sherlock Holmes on the dotted line, unless using Mycroft’s name suited him better. But in our flat he was always Sherlock.
Did he have a precursor? In a way, he did. In point of fact, there might have been no Sherlock at all had I not suffered, one summer, a shot to the shoulder. In the desert of Afghanistan. Oh when? About as many weeks before I met Sherlock as months we spent together. You can always count on a blogger for a fancy prose style.
Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, exhibit number one is what this man, this misinformed, infuriating, self-sacrificing genius would have me believe. Look at this tangle of lies.
Original: Lolita, Vladmir Nabokov
Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. Lo-lee-ta: the tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth. Lo. Lee. Ta.
She was Lo, plain Lo, in the morning, standing four feet ten in one sock. She was Lola in slacks. She was Dolly at school. She was Dolores on the dotted line. But in my arms she was always Lolita.
Did she have a precursor? She did, indeed she did. In point of fact, there might have been no Lolita at all had I not loved, one summer, a certain initial girl-child. In a princedom by the sea. Oh when? About as many years before Lolita was born as my age was that summer. You can always count on a murderer for a fancy prose style.
Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, exhibit number one is what the seraphs, the misinformed, simple, noble-winged seraphs, envied. Look at this tangle of thorns.
so, so good.