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mention them to us. We can, however, learn to master many aspects of our attic’s structure, throwing out junk that got in by mistake (as Holmes promises to forget Copernicus at the earliest opportunity), prioritizing those things we want to and pushing back those that we don’t, learning how to take the contours of our unique attic into account so that they don’t unduly influence us as they otherwise might.
    While we may never become quite as adept as the master at divininga man’s innermost thoughts from his exterior, in learning to understand the layout and functionality of our own brain attic we take the first step to becoming better at exploiting its features to their maximum potential—in other words, to learning how to optimize our own thought process, so that we start any given decision or action as our best, most aware selves. Our attic’s structure and contents aren’t there because we have to think that way, but because we’ve learned over time and with repeat practice (often unknown, but practice nevertheless) to think that way. We’ve decided, on a certain level, that mindful attention is just not worth the effort. We’ve chosen efficiency over depth. It may take just as long, but we can learn to think differently.
    The basic structure may be there for good, but we can learn to alter its exact linkages and building blocks—and that alteration will actually rebuild the attic, so to speak, rewiring our neural connections as we change our habits of thought. Just as with any renovation, some of the major overhauls may take some time. You can’t just rebuild an attic in a day. But some minor changes will likely begin to appear within days—and even hours. And they will do so no matter how old your attic is and how long it has been since it’s gotten a proper cleaning. In other words, our brains can learn new skills quickly—and they can continue to do so throughout our lives, not just when we are younger. As for the contents: while some of those, too, are there to stay, we can be selective about what we keep in the future—and can learn to organize the attic so that those contents we do want are easiest to access, and those we either value less or want to avoid altogether move further into the corners. We may not come out with an altogether different attic, but we can certainly come out with one that more resembles Holmes’s.
    Memory’s Furniture
    The same day that Watson first learns of his new friend’s theories on deduction—all of that Niagara-from-a-drop-of-water and whatnot—he is presented with a most convincing demonstration of their power: their application to a puzzling murder. As the two men sit discussing Holmes’s article, they are interrupted by a message from Scotland Yard. InspectorTobias Gregson requests Holmes’s opinion on a puzzler of a case. A man has been found dead, and yet, “There had been no robbery, nor is there any evidence as to how the man met his death. There are marks of blood in the room, but there is no wound upon his person.” Gregson continues his appeal: “We are at a loss as to how he came into the empty house; indeed, the whole affair is a puzzler.” And without further ado, Holmes departs for Lauriston Gardens, Watson at his side.
    Is the case as singular as all that? Gregson and his colleague, Inspector Lestrade, seem to think so. “It beats anything I have seen, and I am no chicken,” offers Lestrade. Not a clue in sight. Holmes, however, has an idea. “Of course, this blood belongs to a second individual—presumably the murderer, if murder has been committed,” he tells the two policemen. “It reminds me of the circumstances attendant on the death of Van Jansen, in Utrecht, in the year ’34. Do you remember the case, Gregson?”
    Gregson confesses that he does not.
    “Read it up—you really should,” offers Holmes. “There is nothing new under the sun. It has all been done before.”
    Why does Holmes remember Van Jansen while Gregson does