In preparation for upcoming Los Angeles suntanning come summer time, I have taken up the last remaining of three Raymond Chandler novels sitting on our New York apartment bookshelf--now testing the laws of physicals as the gyp board behind it seems ever closer to claiming an apparently favored horizontal position. The two other novels were read back-to-back about a year ago and, either overwhelmed with the dark and dry humorous style of Mr. Chandler or simply coming to the conclusion that The Long Goodbye just couldn't be topped, I balked at the thought of reading the last remaining child of the triplets recently taken home all around the same time. Now, a year later and the aforementioned westward trip abound, I thought it would be perfect timing to revisit the noir crime novels set in LA staring the one and only, Philip Marlowe. Not to mention I just wanted a good, entertaining read. To my surprise, after setting low expectations, I have found myself again and again delighted by the witty banter, bleak and desperate descriptions often taking up half a page, and the somehow technicolored narration of a black and white world constantly becoming more grey. Sitting on the subway this evening on my way home I ran across a short passage that seemed to sum up (or force a bubbling up of) all of my emotions regarding Chandler's prose style and making clear why I loved delving into the world of 1930s crime, mischief, and romance each day along side my favorite P.I. So, without further ado, I'd like to share a bit of complete pleasure and joy and poetry amidst what others my only call pulp:
“I got on my feet and went over to the bowl and threw cold water on my face. After a little while I felt a little better, but very little. 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 coat, a hat, and a gun. I put them on and went out of the room.”