I found there was life beyond horror and sci-fi. Although still within the main confines—film and literature. As livid and lurid, sensation fiction could not escape my interest for long, and once the tenterhooks increased, it was only a matter of choice. Mystery is still the unifying factor, whichever the strain—supernatural, detective or psychic, though permeation is a case, if not often.
As of today, the Victorian era still beams of relevance. It is continually studied/taught as a significant fashion period, behold its over-ornamentations—nobody has done it better. On another aspect, it was the time when Edgar Allan Poe picked a pen, and literature was never the same. As chronicled by Michael Cox, Victorian Detective Stories traces the detective story from the bud to the broadly branched trunk it has become. From Auguste Dupin to Simon Carne, through Sherlock Holmes.
Where the detective looms in a given tale, some authors prevail by ingeniously distracting the reader into seemingly founded preconceptions, by only beguiled and engineered insinuation. Some cases neither involved crime, others no detection, yet unfolded a strongly concocted mystery. With a keen and sharp eye for detail, I thought nothing could be better than a detective writer describing atmosphere—mostly brooding the narration’s surroundings. Sinister a link for the detective and the ghost/gothic story. It is the mania related stories that turned up the most thrilling, the weakest being the first supernatural tale—a slight plot-hole. When binge-reading does not hurt, eyes pleading, consider “your curiosity has been raised to fever heat“—if in the company of puns from two headings.
As the detective progressed to to capacitate mad-scienists, these one-and-thirty are what is essential for book pleasure in the drawing-room. After supper, a glass of grog, and a smoke. Better than meerschaum in the smoking-room with accompanies. And nothing is as schooling as a studious introduction.