A few years back, a young friend in our church became hooked on “Happy Days,” the television series. She fantasized of the 1950s as the golden age in American life. She thought it was all Elvis and sock hops and soda fountains.
One day I just couldn’t take it any more and did something really mean.
I said, “Melissa, I became a teenager in 1953. In the ’50s, we fought the Korean War, then went through the Cold War. We feared being bombed by Russia every day, and racism was rampant. I wouldn’t go back there for anything.”
I know, I know. I should have left her alone to her daydreaming. She wasn’t hurting anyone.
The truth is I’m as much into nostalgia as anyone I know.
Nostalgia: Fantasizing about an earlier time in a way that denies the reality. That’s my definition, not one you’ll find in a book somewhere.
The current Sherlock Holmes craze owes its popularity to an idealized love for the 1890s as much as to an admiration for the observation and reasoning skills of the great detective, I wager. This fictional creation of Arthur Conan Doyle is more popular today than he has ever been, and that’s saying something.
In “The Sherlockian,” Graham Moore’s new book that plays to the fascination for all things Sherlock, the protagonist, Harold White, sizes up the nostalgia thing perfectly.