Day 10 The Handmaids Tale by Margaret Atwood

Ten days into this challenge, and I’ve reached Book 4: The Handmaid’s Tale by Margaret Atwood. Published in 1985, this dystopian novel has become one of the most enduring and chilling works of speculative fiction. Atwood, who began writing at a young age, published her first novel The Circle Game in 1966, shortly after graduating from Victoria College at the University of Toronto. Though The Handmaid’s Tale is her second novel, it has arguably become her most iconic work, further popularized by the 1990 film adaptation and, more prominently, the long-running TV series.

Set in a bleak near-future, the novel imagines a United States that has collapsed after the highest levels of government are overthrown. A theocratic regime known as the “Sons of Jacob” seizes power and forms a new nation called the Republic of Gilead. Under this theoeconomic revolution, society is completely restructured—most notably, women are stripped of autonomy, rights, and personhood.

In Gilead, women are classified into rigid social castes, each assigned a specific uniform that reflects their role and status:

• Sky Blue – Wives of high-ranking officials. Though at the top of the female hierarchy, they remain under their husbands’ authority. Their color may symbolize the Virgin Mary, reflecting expected purity and virtue. Despite their status, many live in boredom, with domestic labor handled by the Marthas. They are not permitted to read or write and often take up passive hobbies like knitting or gardening to pass the time.

• White – Daughters of Commanders. They wear white until marriage, symbolizing chastity and innocence.

• Red – Handmaids, used solely for reproduction. Gilead justifies their existence by citing the biblical story of Jacob and his wives’ handmaids, Bilhah and Zilpah. These women are forced into sexual servitude, rotated among households to bear children for the elite.

• Brown – Aunts, older unmarried or infertile women who train and police the Handmaids. They are the only women permitted to read and hold a degree of authority, but they do so by perpetuating the regime's control.

• Green – Marthas, older infertile women who serve as domestic workers. The name refers to the biblical Martha from Luke 10, who busied herself with household duties while her sister listened to Jesus.

• Multicolored Stripes – Econowives, married to low-ranking men. They fulfill multiple roles: homemaker, companion, and child-bearer. Their striped dress reflects their multifaceted burdens.

• Black – Widows, typically wives or Econowives whose husbands have died. Their rarity implies that they may be exiled once deemed no longer useful.

This classification system breeds resentment and division. Marthas, Wives, and Econowives scorn the Handmaids, who are seen as impure or shameful. At the bottom of society are the Unwomen—those who are infertile, refuse to marry, or otherwise fail to conform. These women are exiled to toxic colonies or labor camps. Handmaids who fail to conceive after three placements are also condemned as Unwomen.

The story is told through the eyes of Offred, a Handmaid assigned to a Commander’s household. Her narration is subdued, but not without flickers of resistance. During a shopping trip, she overhears two Marthas gossiping and longs to join in—but refrains, knowing social barriers are enforced even in idle chatter. Her mind drifts to memories of her husband and daughter, suggesting her compliance is more survival than acceptance.

The world Atwood constructs is grim, Orwellian, and all too plausible. While 1984—published in 1949—imagined the future through totalitarian surveillance and censorship, The Handmaid’s Tale, released a year after that title’s namesake year, explores power through reproductive control and theological authoritarianism. Atwood was writing during a critical period in the women's rights movement. The 1980s saw growing advocacy around workplace harassment, reproductive rights, and legal protections for women. Against this backdrop, Atwood imagined a regime that turns back the clock—reducing women to property, trophies, or tools of the state.

So far, I’ve read six chapters, and already the emotional weight is palpable. This book feels like a warning—one that echoes across decades.

Day 9-The Silent Patient Conclusion

 As The Silent Patient enters its middle act, the story begins to shed its initial stillness and build toward something more psychologically charged. In chapters 36–70, the novel becomes less about “what happened” in the past and more about “why it happened”—and who the people involved truly are beneath their crafted surfaces.
These chapters are filled with subtle tension rather than explosive events. The drama unfolds in private glances, diary entries, strained conversations, and inner monologues that hint at deeper fractures. Alicia Berenson’s silence, once perceived as mysterious or even manipulative, begins to feel increasingly tragic. Her inability to speak becomes symbolic of a lifetime of being unheard, dismissed, or violated in ways that go beyond words. And though she remains physically still, her inner world—glimpsed through carefully revealed entries and memories—begins to flicker with emotional unrest.
Meanwhile, Theo, the psychotherapist trying to “help” Alicia, becomes an equally fascinating study in contradiction. His professional demeanor is beginning to crack. His voice as a narrator, once seemingly rational and compassionate, takes on new shades—sometimes tinged with obsession, other times with self-justification. There is a growing sense that his interest in Alicia is more than clinical. Something personal is bleeding into his work, and the novel invites readers to question his objectivity, his honesty, and even his reliability as a storyteller.
What makes this portion of the book especially rich is the psychological mirroring between Theo and Alicia. Without spelling anything out, author Alex Michaelides slowly builds a thematic bridge between the two. Both come from families where emotional neglect or cruelty left long shadows. Both are in relationships shaped by betrayal or emotional disconnection. Both are haunted by silence—not just Alicia’s literal silence, but the kind of emotional silence that lingers in dysfunctional relationships and unresolved pain.
At this point in the book, the line between therapist and patient is blurring. You begin to wonder who is really helping whom—or whether either of them is capable of healing at all. The novel walks a fine line here, carefully maintaining suspense while deepening its emotional stakes.
Narratively, chapters 36–70 balance two major arcs:
The ongoing investigation into Alicia’s trauma and past life, including her connection to a mysterious figure she believes was watching her.
Theo’s increasingly unstable private life, particularly his suspicions about his wife, which drive him to make questionable decisions.
Both threads are compelling on their own, but when viewed together, they form a mirror image—two stories of emotional exile, betrayal, and an overwhelming need to be seen and understood.
These chapters also introduce or deepen secondary characters, some of whom serve as narrative devices more than full personalities. A few come and go without much consequence, offering texture rather than transformation. While this may feel like padding to some readers, it also reinforces the claustrophobic atmosphere of The Grove, the psychiatric facility where much of the novel unfolds. Everyone is watching everyone else. Everyone is hiding something.
Tonally, this middle stretch leans into the slow-burn suspense. There’s a creeping discomfort in how events unfold—not through violence or overt twists, but through psychological unease. We’re not sprinting toward a climax here; we’re being drawn into a web, and we’re not sure who the spider is yet.
Key Themes Emerging in Chapters 36–70:

• Silence as protection and punishment
• Betrayal and emotional erosion
• The dangerous intersection of empathy and obsession
• The fragility of identity in the face of trauma
• The illusion of control in therapeutic relationships

As the story begins to wrap up, readers are likely to feel that something is shifting beneath their feet. Characters we thought we understood are becoming more complex—and perhaps more untrustworthy. The narrative tension, like a coiled spring, continues to tighten.
For those who appreciate psychological thrillers with emotional depth, these chapters are a slow but rewarding descent. It’s not about solving the mystery quickly—it’s about understanding the cost of silence, the weight of hidden wounds, and how far someone might go to feel heard, understood, or vindicated.

Verdict: A Chilling, Psychological Slow Burn With Flawed but Compelling Execution

The Silent Patient thrives as a character-driven psychological thriller that explores trauma, repression, betrayal, and the blurred lines between healer and manipulator. The novel doesn’t rely on constant action but builds its tension through emotional parallels, fragmented narratives, and an unsettling intimacy between therapist and patient.

✅ Strengths:

Thematic Depth: The mirroring between Theo and Alicia creates a powerful undercurrent. Their shared experiences of emotional neglect and betrayal turn the story into a dual character study.

Narrative Structure: The use of Alicia’s diary alongside Theo’s first-person narration keeps the reader guessing and adds layers to the mystery.

Psychological Complexity: The novel excels in portraying how trauma shapes perception, identity, and behavior. It treats silence not just as a symptom, but as a shield—and possibly a weapon.

❗ Mixed Elements:

Predictability of the Twist: While the twist is cleverly structured, perceptive readers may see it coming by the time Alicia’s art and Theo’s inner life begin to converge.

Secondary Characters: Many characters function as narrative tools or background filler. Their limited development may leave readers wishing for a richer supporting cast.

Pacing: The book’s midsection, particularly chapters 36–70, leans into slow-burn psychological tension. It rewards patience but may frustrate those expecting faster plot momentum.

❌ Weaknesses:

Overreliance on Coincidence: Some plot points hinge on convenience or thin believability—especially when motivations are retroactively justified.

Theo’s Voice: As the narrator, Theo is unreliable, but not always in a satisfying or consistent way. His descent into obsession is compelling but occasionally muddled.

📚 Final Thoughts:

The Silent Patient is more than just a murder mystery—it’s an examination of how silence conceals truth and how broken people sometimes break others in their quest to feel whole. It’s a slow unraveling rather than a fast-paced thriller, and while its ending can feel both powerful and contrived, the emotional resonance lingers.

Recommended for:

Readers who enjoy character-driven thrillers, unreliable narrators, and psychological tension over action.

Not ideal for:

Those looking for fast-paced twists, neatly resolved subplots, or dynamic ensemble casts.

Day 8- Book 3 The Silent Patent

 As The Silent Patient unfolds, the psychological tension intensifies. Theo, the narrator and psychotherapist, becomes increasingly absorbed in the mystery surrounding Alicia, a once-celebrated artist who has not spoken a word since a shocking, violent incident. His mission appears clear: to help her find her voice again. But the deeper Theo goes in his attempts to understand Alicia, the more the lines blur between therapist and investigator, between clinical curiosity and personal obsession.

In his pursuit, Theo begins to explore the lives of those closest to Alicia—friends, family, and colleagues—hoping to uncover the roots of her silence. Through these investigations, we start to see not only the emotional and psychological landscape that may have shaped Alicia’s inner world, but also the way others projected their desires, expectations, and needs onto her. The narrative quietly critiques the tendency of people to love what someone creates, while failing to see or nurture the person themselves. Alicia, as a silent figure, becomes a mirror onto which others reflect their own meanings—sometimes with compassion, but often with disregard or self-interest.

Yet as much as the novel is about Alicia’s silence, it also becomes a study of Theo’s voice. He presents himself as rational, determined, and empathetic. But subtle narrative choices begin to challenge that image. His storytelling frequently blends timelines, especially when discussing his home life with his wife, Kathy. While he speaks about their relationship as if it's unfolding in the present, the emotional tone and structure suggest we may be witnessing a recollection rather than real-time narration. This temporal fluidity introduces a quiet sense of unease, making the reader wonder if Theo's version of events is as stable as he claims.

Over time, it becomes apparent that Theo’s interest in Alicia’s silence is not entirely clinical—it’s personal, and possibly obsessive. Even as other professionals advise giving Alicia space to express herself through art, Theo continues to press forward, driven by a deeper need that seems to transcend therapeutic boundaries. The novel deftly toys with the reader’s trust, using the limitations of first-person narration to pose unsettling questions: Can we trust what we're being told? What motivates someone to truly help another—empathy, ego, or something more complicated?

In this way, The Silent Patient becomes more than a psychological thriller. It is a meditation on trauma, identity, and the masks we wear—both for others and for ourselves. Through the interplay of silence and speech, memory and reality, it challenges the reader to consider how much of a story we ever truly understand, especially when the storyteller may have reasons to conceal the truth.

Day 7- Book 3 The Silent Patient

 As The Silent Patient progresses into Part Two, the story begins to shift from surface-level mystery into a far more intimate psychological exploration. The once-clear distinctions between silence and speech, sanity and instability, begin to blur. Through Alicia’s personal journal entries, we start to see that her seemingly perfect life may have been carefully curated—a mask concealing deeper emotional currents. Her art becomes a silent scream, layered with symbolism and meaning that speaks louder than words ever could.

Though Alicia remains mute in the present timeline, her inner world becomes more vivid through these entries. They hint at a history marked by emotional strain and lingering shadows from her past. Her artwork, rich with allegory, suggests she is processing something profound—perhaps something even she hasn’t fully admitted to herself. The symbolism in her paintings feels deliberate, echoing themes of sacrifice, isolation, and a longing to be understood. There’s a sense that Alicia is not merely silent, but speaking in a language the world has forgotten how to hear.

Parallel to Alicia’s unfolding complexity, we witness cracks forming in Theo’s own life. Though he initially appears as a calm and reliable figure, we begin to see that he, too, is grappling with unresolved emotional turmoil. His personal relationships are under strain, and the pressure mounting at work only intensifies the psychological tension. The Grove—the facility where Alicia is being treated—is facing potential closure. Theo’s goal of helping Alicia break her silence is no longer just about therapy; it becomes a race against time, with professional, ethical, and personal stakes all intertwined.

Part Two deepens the novel’s central questions: What does it mean to be truly seen? Can silence be a form of communication—or even resistance? And how much of our identity is shaped by what we choose to reveal or conceal? As these questions unfold, the reader is drawn further into a web of hidden truths, unspoken wounds, and the complex dance between therapist and patient.

The Silent Patient continues to captivate by balancing slow-building suspense with profound emotional insight. In this section, every moment feels charged with potential—setting the stage for discoveries that promise to be as devastating as they are illuminating.

Day 6 Book 3 The Silent Patient

 The Silent Patient was recommended to me a few years ago during a psychological thriller meetup group I attended. It’s the debut novel of Alex Michaelides, and after finally diving in, I can already see why it became such a phenomenon.

Michaelides brings a fascinating blend of literary and psychological expertise to his writing. Born and raised in Cyprus, he studied English literature at Trinity College, Cambridge, and screenwriting at the American Film Institute in Los Angeles. Perhaps most notable, though, is his background in psychotherapy—he studied the subject for three years and worked in a secure unit for adolescents dealing with complex mental health issues. These real-world experiences breathe credibility into the clinical setting and psychological intricacy of The Silent Patient.

The first ten chapters introduce us to Alicia Berenson, a successful painter who lives with her husband Gabriel, a fashion photographer, in a beautiful home in London. From the outset, we’re told that something terrible has happened—but Alicia won’t speak. Not a word. The media has latched onto her silence, turning her into a mysterious figure and fueling endless speculation.

Enter Theo Faber, a forensic psychotherapist who has long been captivated by Alicia’s case. He narrates the story with both clinical insight and personal conviction, making it clear that his interest in Alicia goes beyond professional curiosity. When a job opens up at "The Grove," the secure psychiatric facility where Alicia is being held, Theo seizes the opportunity. His goal: to get Alicia to talk—and to understand why she did what she did.

As the chapters unfold, Michaelides carefully builds the psychological tension. We get glimpses into Alicia’s world through Theo’s eyes, and through excerpts from her personal journal—one of the few ways she still "speaks." The novel draws readers into questions of trauma, memory, and motive without offering quick answers, which makes it an addictive and thoughtful read.

Already, Greek mythology is quietly threaded into the narrative. Alicia's final painting before her silence—titled Alcestis—hints at deeper themes of sacrifice, silence, and forgotten promises. Those familiar with the myth will notice subtle echoes, but nothing in these early chapters gives too much away.

By Chapter 10, the groundwork is expertly laid: a woman who refuses to speak, a therapist determined to unlock her story, and a house that might hold secrets of its own. If the first few chapters are any indication, The Silent Patient is a tightly woven psychological mystery that promises both emotional depth and mind-bending twists.

This is a book that reads like peeling back layers of paint—each stroke revealing something darker, richer, and more intriguing underneath. And so far, I’m hooked.

Day 5, Book 2 The Sign of Four | Conclusion

 Continuing My Journey with Sherlock Holmes: Reflections on The Sign of Four

After finishing A Study in Scarlet, I dove straight into The Sign of Four, the second book in Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes series. Though slightly shorter in length, this installment feels significantly more polished in both structure and storytelling. The mystery is more intricate, the prose more assured, and the emotional undercurrents between characters far more defined.

One of the most compelling aspects of this book is the evolving relationship between Holmes and Watson. Their partnership deepens here—not just as colleagues or flat mates, but as two people who genuinely care for and understand one another. There’s a comfort and quiet loyalty between them that feels organic and earned. It’s easy to see why generations of readers have become so deeply invested in their bond.

As with many enduring fictional duos, a portion of the fandom reads their relationship through a romantic or queer-coded lens. And honestly, it’s not hard to see why. Subtle, tender moments between them feel emotionally charged—not necessarily in a romantic sense, but in a way that reflects deep emotional intimacy and mutual dependence.

Holmes in particular is portrayed as someone fundamentally uninterested in romantic entanglements. He views emotional attachments—especially love—as distractions from his intellectual clarity and deductive focus. This aspect of his character may resonate strongly with readers who identify on the asexual or aromantic spectrum, particularly within neurodivergent communities where such identities are more frequently explored and embraced.

What surprised me most about The Sign of Four is how emotionally textured it is beneath its mystery veneer. There’s a scene early on that, while simple, stands out for its quiet intimacy—one character offering gentle comfort to another in a moment of exhaustion. It’s a powerful reminder that this series isn’t just about puzzles and deductions; it’s also about people, their bonds, and the spaces where vulnerability is allowed to surface.

The mystery at the heart of the story is layered and far-reaching, touching on colonial history, personal betrayal, and the long shadows cast by past decisions. While the early pacing is brisk and engaging, the middle section does lose some momentum as the investigation hits multiple dead ends. However, these slower moments serve a purpose—they heighten tension, mirror Holmes’s growing frustration, and remind us that even brilliant minds can face blind spots.

As the plot unfolds, the narrative raises questions about justice, obsession, and the corrosive effects of greed. Without spoiling anything, I’ll say the moral landscape becomes increasingly complex, asking not just who committed the crime, but who truly deserves what—and whether certain pursuits are ever worth their cost.

Final Verdict: Quietly Profound, but Structurally Uneven

The Sign of Four is a notable step up in emotional depth and storytelling craft compared to A Study in Scarlet. Its writing is more confident, and its portrayal of Holmes and Watson’s relationship will resonate especially with readers drawn to quiet intimacy and layered character dynamics.

While the core mystery is engaging and thematically rich, the story does suffer from pacing issues in the middle and some underwhelming payoff regarding its titular group. Still, it remains a memorable and thoughtful entry in the Holmes canon—one that balances intellect with emotion, and delivers moments of sharp insight and unexpected tenderness.

Recommended for readers who are curious about the human side of Sherlock Holmes—and who find meaning in the soft spaces between the lines.

Day 4, Book 2-The Sign of Four by Sir Arthur Conan Doyal

 As I continue my book challenge, I’ve decided to give Sir Arthur Conan Doyle one more spin through the fog-draped streets of Victorian London—this time with The Sign of Four. My experience with A Study in Scarlet was mostly positive: it’s a clever and spirited introduction to the world’s most famous consulting detective, Sherlock Holmes, and his steadfast companion, Dr. John Watson. But while the first novel carries historical significance and charm, it also shows the marks of a young writer still growing into his voice. The structure was unconventional, and the pacing sometimes uneven. Still, it was enough to intrigue me—and clearly enough to captivate readers in Doyle’s time and beyond.

Doyle would eventually pen four Holmes novels and 56 short stories, many of which have become staples of detective fiction. His decision to "kill off" Holmes in The Final Problem caused such a public uproar that he was eventually pressured into resurrecting the character—a testament to Holmes’s powerful grip on the popular imagination. It’s one thing for a book to be successful in its time; it’s another to become a cornerstone of literary history.

This realization has shaped how I approach reading series, especially when tackling prolific authors or multi-book sagas. It’s often not the first entry that fully demonstrates an author's range or the potential of their characters. Rather, it’s the books that follow where you begin to see depth, evolution, and narrative maturity. That’s why I don’t feel obligated to read every installment of a long series—but I do want to see how things grow. Series like The Chronicles of Narnia or The Wheel of Time offer rich worlds and extended lore, but they also carry the risk of formulaic repetition. Some stories expand and elevate; others circle the same ideas, slightly rebranded.

Another challenge with series reading is balance. It’s easy to get caught up checking off books in a multi-volume saga, but that sometimes leaves less room for stand-alone novels or hidden gems that might offer just as much insight, emotion, or enjoyment. So, for this challenge, I’ve decided to take a curated approach: dip into each major author or series, spotlight a few titles that feel essential, and leave the door open for further exploration—either for myself or anyone following along.

The Sign of Four feels like a perfect next step. Right from the start, Holmes is more fully formed—his brilliance, quirks, and sharp edges on clear display. You get the sense that Doyle is becoming more confident in how he writes Holmes, not just as a puzzle-solver, but as a character with distinct personality and philosophy. The mystery at the heart of the story is layered and intriguing, drawing Holmes and Watson into a case that blends personal stakes, coded messages, and secrets buried in the past.

While I’m keeping this post spoiler-free, I will note that The Sign of Four introduces several characters from varied cultural backgrounds, and this serves as a reflection of both Doyle’s world-building and the time in which he wrote. The late 19th century was marked by British imperialism, particularly in regions like India and the Middle East, and this colonial context inevitably shaped the way people—and therefore characters—were portrayed. Some depictions can feel dated or biased by today’s standards, and it’s worth acknowledging that even as we appreciate the literary craft. Reading stories like this invites us to engage both with the fiction and the era that produced it, critically and thoughtfully.

Another striking element that may catch modern readers off guard is Holmes’s use of substances that, while now considered illicit, were common medicinal treatments at the time. Doyle presents this aspect of Holmes’s character without romanticizing it. In fact, it’s Watson who often serves as the moral compass, quietly challenging Holmes’s habits and highlighting the tension between genius and personal health. This dynamic adds nuance to their friendship and reminds us that even brilliant minds are not without their flaws.

What stands out most to me in The Sign of Four so far is the atmosphere: that blend of foggy London streets, cryptic messages, and cool logic cutting through emotional chaos. It’s what makes a Holmes mystery feel distinct. Doyle’s London is a city of secrets—where justice might be found down a quiet alley or in the pages of a forgotten diary. It’s a world that feels both grounded in realism and heightened by the mythos Holmes brings to every case.

So while I’m still early in the journey, this second novel confirms for me that Holmes isn’t just a clever detective—he’s a character who rewards continued reading. Doyle’s writing is maturing. The mysteries are deepening. And the Victorian world he builds is both a thrilling escape and a mirror reflecting the complexities of its time.

Day 3-A study in Scarlet | Conclusion

And so, my first book concludes on day three of this challenge.
In truth, I could have completed this book on day two, as it's relatively short—only fourteen chapters in total. Yet, it wasn’t the length that slowed me down. It was the structure—specifically the shift in tone, setting, and narrative focus in the second half—that gave me pause.

The book is divided into two parts. The first follows a fairly straightforward detective narrative, culminating in the arrest of the murderer. It's a classic setup, with all the hallmarks of the genre that Arthur Conan Doyle helped define. But just as the reader expects some form of resolution or perhaps a courtroom drama to follow, the story takes a dramatic and unexpected turn.

The second half, titled The Country of the Saints, opens not in London or any recognizable extension of the mystery setting, but in the Alkali Plains of Utah. Suddenly, we are no longer dealing with Holmes and Watson or the immediate consequences of a murder. Instead, we follow a man and a young girl rescued by a group of Mormon settlers. At first glance, this feels like an entirely different story. There’s no preamble, no smooth transition—just a jarring shift that feels like stepping into a different novel altogether. This narrative detour left me momentarily disoriented. Only later, as familiar names from the murder case begin to resurface, do the threads of the two storylines begin to weave together. The identities of the victims and the motives behind their deaths begin to emerge in this retrospective saga.

It becomes clear that Doyle intended this flashback to provide the deeper emotional and ideological context for the crime. Yet the execution of this device, especially by modern standards, feels abrupt and arguably inelegant. The sudden pivot to historical drama from detective fiction can be disorienting for a reader unprepared for it.

It’s worth noting that Arthur Conan Doyle was in his late twenties when he wrote this story—his very first Sherlock Holmes novel—and reportedly completed it in just a few weeks. Given its brisk production, it’s perhaps understandable that some structural choices might come off as unrefined or experimental. Still, it’s fascinating to see the ambition behind this storytelling technique, even if it feels disjointed.

Historically, A Study in Scarlet was written during a time when public perceptions of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints (commonly referred to as the Mormon Church) were shaped largely by fear, rumor, and a lack of firsthand knowledge. Many popular accounts of the time portrayed the faith and its followers in a highly sensationalized, often hostile manner. Doyle’s depiction is no exception. His portrayal of the Danite Band—a secretive group alleged to have existed within the early Mormon community—and their acts of violence feeds into this narrative of religious extremism.

When later asked about his portrayal of Mormonism, Doyle defended his work, claiming that all the information he included about the Danites and their supposed murders was historically sourced. He felt that, since the events were documented in existing texts, he had nothing to apologize for or retract. However, he also acknowledged that this was a work of fiction, and as such, the dramatization of these events was likely heightened for narrative effect. He reportedly said that it was better to leave the matter alone.

Interestingly, a descendant of Brigham Young—the second president of the LDS Church and a central figure in the book’s second half—later alleged that Conan Doyle had privately apologized for his portrayal of the Mormon faith. Whether this is true or not, it speaks to the long-lasting impact and controversy surrounding this part of the novel.

As for my own perspective, I approach this depiction with some caution. I have no strong personal opinions about the use of the Mormon faith as a backdrop for what is, essentially, a tale of cult-like behavior, coercion, and revenge. I’ve encountered stories of various faith groups—Mormonism included—that showcase both the inspiring and the extreme. It’s important to remember that nearly any religious tradition can be framed as "cultish" when viewed through a lens of fear or unfamiliarity.

That said, I do feel that the specific framing in this story—where an entire religious community is cast as oppressive and vengeful—could easily have been replaced with a fictionalized frontier society, detached from any real-world faith. The core narrative would still hold. The emotional power, the themes of escape, revenge, and loss would still resonate. Attaching it to a specific and still-practicing religious group adds a layer of ethical complexity that modern readers may find problematic, especially when the depiction leans heavily on outdated or biased accounts.

Despite these issues, I recognize the historical context of the work. It is both a product of its time and a window into the cultural assumptions of that era. It reminds us of the responsibility that comes with writing about real groups and histories—even within fiction.

So while I may have taken longer to finish this book than expected, the pause it prompted was worthwhile. It gave me a chance to reflect not just on the mystery, but on how stories are shaped by their times, and how those stories in turn shape our views of others.

Verdict: A flawed but fascinating first entry—historically revealing, structurally uneven, and culturally provocative.

The novel’s first half shines with the intrigue and sharpness that would later define the Sherlock Holmes legacy, but its second half, though ambitious, stumbles under the weight of its tonal shift and controversial portrayal of real-world religion. I respect its historical significance and boldness for a debut, but the disjointed narrative and dated cultural framing left me more contemplative than captivated. Worth reading for its legacy—but with a critical eye.

Day 2-A Study in Scarlet

 As I continued reading A Study in Scarlet, I explored Chapters 3 through 7. In these chapters, Sherlock Holmes steps fully into the spotlight, investigating a pair of murders that reveal the depth of his deductive genius and why his reputation precedes him.

The victims hail from Ohio, and the first murder initially appears to be driven by personal vengeance. The German word for "revenge" (RACHE) is scrawled in blood on the wall—an evocative detail meant to imply an emotionally charged motive. However, Holmes quickly uncovers that this message was a calculated distraction, planted to mislead the police. The second murder shares superficial similarities with the first, but key differences—skillfully interpreted by Holmes—ultimately lead to the killer’s capture.

One of the most fascinating elements in these chapters is Holmes’s use of the Baker Street Irregulars, a group of street children he employs as informants. He explains that these boys are ideal spies because they go unnoticed—unlike police officers, whose presence might cause people to be more guarded. This immediately reminded me of Charles Dickens’s Oliver Twist, where Fagin uses a gang of orphaned boys for more nefarious purposes. The parallel highlights how both authors tap into the reality of street children in Victorian London, though in very different contexts.

Charles Dickens was a towering literary influence during Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s youth, and his presence can be felt in much of the era’s fiction. Yet Doyle’s narrative voice diverges significantly from Dickens’s. While Dickens is known for his rich descriptions, emotional depth, and critique of societal issues, Doyle’s writing is more concise, rational, and focused on logic—especially in his detective stories. Though Doyle likely admired Dickens’s mastery, he clearly chose not to mimic his more ornate style, perhaps intentionally setting his work apart from what he may have viewed as Dickensian excess.

Another compelling thread running through these chapters is the relationship between Holmes and the detectives Gregson and Lestrade. Though both men turn to Holmes for his insights, they also show a subtle but understandable resentment toward him. This tension seems rooted in professional rivalry and the discomfort Holmes’s brilliance causes within the traditional structures of Scotland Yard.

Book 1-A Study in Scarlet by Sir Arthur Conan Doyal

May 22 2025

Today I celebrate my 43rd birthday, and with it, the beginning of a personal challenge: to read and reflect on a meaningful selection of books between now and my 44th birthday. I've decided to begin this journey with A Study in Scarlet by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. There’s a symbolic poetry to this choice—not only is it the first story ever written about the iconic detective Sherlock Holmes, but I also happen to share a birthday with the author himself. It feels only right to honor the start of this literary adventure with a nod to that synchronicity.

Sir Arthur Conan Doyle was a man of many dimensions: a British writer and physician whose influence spans genres and generations. He is most famously remembered as the creator of Sherlock Holmes, arguably the most recognizable fictional detective in literary history. But his work didn’t stop at fiction. Doyle also wrote serious treatises on politics, war, and historical subjects, and later in his life, he became an ardent spiritualist, advocating for belief in the supernatural with the same intensity he once reserved for rational deduction. This duality—the man of science who later pursued the spiritual—makes him all the more intriguing as a figure.

I’ve long been aware of Sherlock Holmes as a cultural icon. Even if you’ve never cracked the spine of one of Doyle’s novels, chances are you still know who Holmes is: the deerstalker hat, the pipe, the sharp mind, the icy demeanor. His persona has been reimagined endlessly in film, television, and literature. Yet despite this cultural saturation, A Study in Scarlet is the first Sherlock Holmes novel I’ve ever read. There’s something special about encountering such a well-known figure in his original form, unfiltered by adaptation.

What immediately struck me was how vividly drawn both Holmes and Dr. John Watson are, even in their earliest appearances. Holmes, with his quirks and startling powers of deduction, commands attention. Yet Watson is far more than a passive observer or sidekick—he is intelligent, principled, and reflective, and it’s through his eyes that we experience Holmes’s brilliance. Their dynamic is rich with tension and fascination, and it’s easy to see why this pairing has endured for over a century.

It’s well-documented that Doyle based Holmes on one of his former professors, Dr. Joseph Bell, who impressed Doyle with his seemingly supernatural powers of observation and inference. Bell’s methods—piecing together precise conclusions from subtle physical clues—inspired much of Holmes’s deductive style. Watson, meanwhile, is plausibly a stand-in for Doyle himself. Like Watson, Doyle was a physician who served during wartime. While Doyle never confirmed this explicitly, the parallels are difficult to ignore. Watson’s steady, observant nature and medical background serve as a perfect narrative counterbalance to Holmes’s rapid-fire deductions and social aloofness.

Reading the first few chapters, I was particularly struck by Holmes’s personality traits—his social awkwardness, intense focus, unusual interests, and somewhat erratic emotional responses. From my perspective as a neurodivergent individual, these characteristics feel deeply familiar. Holmes’s behaviors align with what we might now recognize as signs of autism or other forms of neurodivergence: a strong preference for logic and pattern over emotion, difficulty interpreting or engaging with social norms, and an encyclopedic knowledge of subjects he finds relevant, while completely disregarding others he deems irrelevant.

At one point, Holmes makes an analogy that I found especially compelling. He compares the mind to an attic—a finite space where every new fact displaces an old one. As such, he insists that one should be selective in what they choose to store in this mental attic. “The capacity of the brain is limited,” he says, “so we must prioritize what is truly useful.” This philosophy, while controversial, offers insight into Holmes’s unique prioritization of knowledge, and perhaps also his detachment from social conventions. He isn't disinterested in people per se—he simply filters the world through a utilitarian logic that values information strictly in terms of utility. As a neurodivergent reader, I resonate with this metaphor. Many of us live in a world that expects us to absorb and adapt to norms that feel irrelevant or overwhelming. Holmes’s “attic” offers a kind of justification, even if not a universally accepted one, for focusing mental energy where it serves us best.

Watson, in contrast, is more grounded, socially aware, and emotionally attuned. His analytical mind is steady and rational, and yet he’s frequently startled by Holmes’s uncanny leaps of logic. Their intellectual chemistry is part of what makes the story so engaging: Holmes dazzles, while Watson humanizes. He serves not only as narrator but as a surrogate for the reader—questioning, skeptical, and fascinated. Their dialogue is crisp, their differences stark, and their mutual respect palpable, even if tinged with occasional irritation.

As I read, I am reminded that this story is more than just a mystery—it’s the birth of a legendary partnership and an invitation into a unique way of thinking. It asks us to look closer, to listen more carefully, to understand that beneath the surface of what seems obvious, there may lie something astonishing. It’s a fitting beginning for a year-long journey through books, where I hope to learn, reflect, and discover not only the stories within the pages but also the thoughts they awaken in me.

This post is also available on my Substack. A spoiler-filled version is available exclusively to paid subscribers. Margins and Metaphors | Jaana Humlie | Substack

100 Audiobooks by 44: A Personal Reading Challenge Journey

As a personal challenge for my 43rd birthday, I’ve set a goal: to read 100 books by the time I turn 44 on May 22, 2026.

Now, I know that might not sound like a monumental feat to some, but hear me out. Every year, plenty of readers start strong with ambitious challenges—only to watch life get in the way. Momentum fades. The to-do list grows. And that once-inspiring goal gets lost in the shuffle of everyday distractions.

I want this one to stick.

Why I’m Doing This

There are a few unique hurdles I’m facing with this challenge. I’m currently a college senior entering the design studies program at my local state university. Between classes, limited space, and financial constraints, I don’t have the luxury of hoarding stacks of physical books (as much as I’d love to).

More importantly, I’ve learned something about myself: I absorb and engage with stories far more deeply when I listen to them. So for this challenge, I’ll be leaning heavily on audiobooks, using resources like my local library and audiobook platforms. That may mean I revisit titles I’ve read before—or even ones I didn’t enjoy the first time around—simply because they’re available.

And I’m okay with that. Growth isn’t always about novelty—it’s about perspective.

Challenge Parameters

🎯 Goal: Read 100 books between May 22, 2025 and May 22, 2026

🎧 Format: Audiobooks only

📚 Genre Rules:

• Fiction: Novels only. Nothing aimed exclusively at kids under 10 (so no Dogman or Captain Underpants, sorry).
• Non-fiction: I’ll stick with biography, memoir, history, essays, and poetry. No “how-to,” instructional, or journalistic manuals.

What You Can Expect

I’ll be sharing daily (or near-daily) updates on here and on Substack, where I’ll document:

• The current book I’m reading
• Chapters covered
• How much time I’ve spent listening
• My thoughts, takeaways, and emotional impressions

Most updates will be spoiler-free, so even if you haven’t read the book, you can still enjoy the reflection. For those interested in going deeper, I’ll also post spoiler-heavy insights and full analyses—available exclusively to subscribers.

Want to Suggest a Book?

I’m open to suggestions! If there’s a book you’d love to see me read and reflect on, feel free to leave a comment or message. I may not always be able to access every suggestion (especially if it’s not available in audio format), but I truly value every recommendation I receive.

Whether you're here to discover new books, revisit old favorites, or simply cheer me on—I’m glad you’re here.

Let’s take this journey together.

You never know what stories might change us.

Link to my substack Page by Page: My 100 Book Journey - by Jaana Humlie