La Vita Nuova - A New Life
What a strange irony of fate that this beautiful story about pain and sadness and a slow overcoming of that inner torture comes here exactly on this miserable day! And yet I really needed something so soothing right now. You were able to make my distress more palatable with the magic of your writing, my dear author, I am much thankful to you for that.
Not only was your work - dealing with such a difficult subject - tenderly and wonderfully written and filled with most lovely emotions, but you also made every chapter of your story incredibly poignant and self-contained, turning our attention to the new aspect of John´s and Sherlock´s misunderstanding and dilemma with every one of them.
I really can´t enumerate all scenes that deeply moved me, because this story is so full of them and most of them were ciseled to make a maximum effect on the reader with incredible skill. Still, I very much loved your description of John´s gradual warming to Sherlock and the way he came to accept him in his life again, as well as Sherlock´s tentative efforts to come to John´s good side again. I enjoyed your play on Dante´s words and your idea to give John "mystical" book of life at last. The moment the misunderstanding was cleared, Sherlock´s gentle claim that "there is still some hope...", the inner dialogue of John and Isabelle... every one of these little "acts" was a thing of maximal beauty and nostalgia.
The light case of James was interesting too and proved that Sherlock´s cases didn´t have to be about murders to be interesting. James´ humorous delusions were a skillful touch that emphasised the tragedy of John in an unexpected way. And yet I loved Sherlock´s compassion towards this man - a compassion only a commiserating lover could experience...
Warm flicker of light in the darkness of these days. It lent the very much needed heat to my heart....
Last edited by nakahara (December 20, 2016 2:08 pm)
-----------------------------------
I cannot live without brainwork. What else is there to live for? Stand at the window there. Was there ever such a dreary, dismal, unprofitable world? See how the yellow fog swirls down the street and drifts across the dun-coloured houses. 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?