Oh my God that’s good.
Not even one page in and my faith in literature and Chandler especially have been completely restored.
It was about eleven o’clock in the morning, mid October, with the sun not shining and a look of hard wet rain in the clearness of the foothills. I was wearing my powder-blue suit, with dark blue shirt, tie and display handkerchief, black brogues, black wool socks with dark blue clocks on them. I was neat, clean, shaved and sober, and I didn’t care who knew it. I was everything the well-dressed private detective ought to be. I was calling on four million dollars.
It’s as though Poodle Springs never existed and I’m back knowing that boos aren’t a waste of time and this whole activity – lying around drinking tea and looking at words one after the other – isn’t a ridiculous thing to do after all, it’s the best way I can think of to spend my time. I’m going to sit here and read books about this guy in the blue suit until my eyes pop out and the kettle blows a fuse.
Thank Christ for that.
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One Comment so far. Leave a comment below.Couldn’t agree more about the genius of Raymond Chandler. Have you tried Hammett by Joe Gores?