Irene Wilde
22-Jul-2008, 23:48
The hardboiled private eye: a gun in one hand, a bottle in the other, and in his heart the steady ache for the dame that got away. Replace the gun with a pen, and you have Raymond Chandler, the man who grabbed pulp and literature by the scruff of their necks and compelled them to shake hands and be friends.
Born in Chicago, raised and educated in Britain, Chandler created an American icon in private investigator Phillip Marlowe. Marlowe lived by a code akin to something from the Old West. It may look like he was breaking the rules, but really, he just lived by his own set. Chandler?s Marlowe looked at life in all its complexities and did his best to navigate it, no matter how ill-equipped he felt for the task:
Out there in the night of a thousand crimes, people were dying, being maimed, cut by flying glass, crushed against steering wheels or under heavy tires. People were being beaten, robbed, strangled, raped, and murdered. People were hungry, sick; bored, desperate with loneliness or remorse or fear, angry, cruel, feverish, shaken by sobs. A city no worse than others, a city rich and vigorous and full of pride, a city lost and beaten and full of emptiness. It all depends on where you sit and what your own private score is. I didn't have one. I didn't care. I finished the drink and went to bed. (The Long Good-bye)
I needed a drink. I needed a lot of life insurance. I needed a vacation. I needed a home in the country. What I had was a hat, a coat and a gun. (Farewell My Lovely)
I devoured Chandler?s books in my youth, his compact, hard-hitting writing was taken to another level by his metaphors and odd twists of phrase that upset expectations for where a sentence was going, some times with humor, sometimes with a hint of the romantic: lyrical, almost whimsical. As good as his writing was, I didn?t realize it at the time. I was reading anything and everything, so it was only in hindsight that I realized just what a solid and imaginative writer Chandler was. Best of all, for all its cultural void, Chandler wrote about LA ? not Chicago, not London, not San Diego. Chandler?s LA no longer exists beyond the occasional building here or stretch of road there. Thankfully, he gave the LA that he knew just enough of his brilliance that we?ve managed to hang on to a little of it ever since. It?s still a city where, when the wind blows down hot off the desert, things can get a little wild:
On nights like that every booze party ends in a fight. Meek little wives feel the edge of the carving knife and study their husbands' necks. Anything can happen. You can even get a full glass of beer at a cocktail lounge. (From the story story, ?Trouble is My Business?)
But, I ordered a martini. J
Chandler?s novels:
The Big Sleep
Farewell My Lovely
The High Window
The Lady in the Lake
The Little Sister
The Simple Art of Murder
The Long Goodbye
Playback
Born in Chicago, raised and educated in Britain, Chandler created an American icon in private investigator Phillip Marlowe. Marlowe lived by a code akin to something from the Old West. It may look like he was breaking the rules, but really, he just lived by his own set. Chandler?s Marlowe looked at life in all its complexities and did his best to navigate it, no matter how ill-equipped he felt for the task:
Out there in the night of a thousand crimes, people were dying, being maimed, cut by flying glass, crushed against steering wheels or under heavy tires. People were being beaten, robbed, strangled, raped, and murdered. People were hungry, sick; bored, desperate with loneliness or remorse or fear, angry, cruel, feverish, shaken by sobs. A city no worse than others, a city rich and vigorous and full of pride, a city lost and beaten and full of emptiness. It all depends on where you sit and what your own private score is. I didn't have one. I didn't care. I finished the drink and went to bed. (The Long Good-bye)
I needed a drink. I needed a lot of life insurance. I needed a vacation. I needed a home in the country. What I had was a hat, a coat and a gun. (Farewell My Lovely)
I devoured Chandler?s books in my youth, his compact, hard-hitting writing was taken to another level by his metaphors and odd twists of phrase that upset expectations for where a sentence was going, some times with humor, sometimes with a hint of the romantic: lyrical, almost whimsical. As good as his writing was, I didn?t realize it at the time. I was reading anything and everything, so it was only in hindsight that I realized just what a solid and imaginative writer Chandler was. Best of all, for all its cultural void, Chandler wrote about LA ? not Chicago, not London, not San Diego. Chandler?s LA no longer exists beyond the occasional building here or stretch of road there. Thankfully, he gave the LA that he knew just enough of his brilliance that we?ve managed to hang on to a little of it ever since. It?s still a city where, when the wind blows down hot off the desert, things can get a little wild:
On nights like that every booze party ends in a fight. Meek little wives feel the edge of the carving knife and study their husbands' necks. Anything can happen. You can even get a full glass of beer at a cocktail lounge. (From the story story, ?Trouble is My Business?)
But, I ordered a martini. J
Chandler?s novels:
The Big Sleep
Farewell My Lovely
The High Window
The Lady in the Lake
The Little Sister
The Simple Art of Murder
The Long Goodbye
Playback