Given how many thousands of times Chandler's style has been parodied, I was worried that I might not get much out of the original. But his prose just has such a lovely, muscular rhythm that I find myself breaking into a grin every few pages. Beware imitations – the real article can't be bettered:

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.

Come on, you can't not love this. The plot is about as incomprehensible as The Big Sleep was, but this time involves the lawless seafront development of ‘Bay City’ (a thinly-disguised Santa Monica). There is the usual delectable quota of seedy nightclubs, corrupt cops, cheap whiskey and dangerous women (including the famous ‘blonde to make a bishop kick a hole in a stained-glass window’). As others have already suggested, a good chunk of the interest here comes from the insight into 1930s west coast society, its drinking habits and clothing and social mores, and its pervasive sense that law and order is a relatively new and shaky development there. A good slang dictionary is a useful companion, so that when a yegg pulls out a hog's leg before taking the fall for the high pillow, you can more or less keep up with events.

I love this. I'm two books in, and I'm already certain I want to read the lot.

Tra 3 e 4 stelle, di nuovo.
Anche se questo volume l’ho apprezzato un po’ di più dell’altro, come storia. La scrittura mi piace molto!!!

Krótka historia o tym, dlaczego są potrzebne nowe przekłady (bo przecież mimo najszczerszego leniwca w sobie musiałam czytać na trzy ręce).


Evidence 1:

(Chandler:)
“I should think you would want somebody to answer the phone,” she said. “And once in a while to send your curtains to the cleaners.”
“I’ll send them out come St. Swithin’s Day. Have a chair. I might miss a few unimportant jobs. And a lot of leg art. I save money.”

(Życieńska:)
- Zdaje mi się, że przydałby się panu ktoś do odbierania telefonów - zauważyła. - Kto by od czasu do czasu odsyłał pana zasłony do pralni.
- Odeślę je sam. Na święty nigdy. Niech pani siada. Czasem tracę parę mało ważnych zleceń. I mam dużo bieganiny. Ale oszczędzam forsę.

(Czartoryski:)
- Można by pomyśleć, że przydałby ci się ktoś do obsługi telefonu - stwierdziła - i żeby od czasu do czasu zanieść te firanki do pralni.
- Sam je tam zaniosę na świętego Bambolego. Siadaj. Czasem zdarza się, że tracę parę mniejszych zleceń. I widok ładnych nóg. Ale oszczędzam pieniądze.

***

Evidence 2:

(Chandler:)
“Let’s go into my private thinking parlor.”

(Życieńska:)
- Wejdźmy do mojej celi skupienia.

(Czartoryski:)
- Chodźmy do mojej osobistej świątyni dumania.

***

Evidence 3:

(Chandler:)
I opened the deep drawer of the desk and got the office bottle out and poured myself a drink.

(Życieńska:)
Wysunąłem najniższą szufladę biurka, wydobyłem biurową whisky i nalałem sobie szklaneczkę.

(Czartoryski:)
Sięgnąłem do głebokiej szuflady biurka, wyciągnąłem stamtąd dyżurną butelkę i nalałem sobie drinka.



Zamykam sprawę.

n  Excerpts from a dinner honoring the 2016 winner of the Otis Chandler Award for Literary Criticismn

Audience Question: You’re known for your essay on the Kantian aesthetic of disinterested judgment as seen in the works of James Joyce, William Gaddis, and Dan Brown. Are there other authors or titles that come to mind, perhaps even more focused on the primacy of style?

Steve: Well, let’s see… Maybe the first book I read where a certain shadowy deportment really popped as a pure statement of style was Raymond Chandler’s Farewell, My Lovely. The book itself was a cannibalization of three earlier short stories of his. Whereas the stories were neatly contained as standalones, the edits in piecing them together were more slapdash, sacrificing both congruency and clarity in the process. Chandler responded saying, "My whole career is based on the idea that the formula doesn't matter, the thing that counts is what you do with the formula; that is to say, it is a matter of style.” And of course that hard-boiled, noir feel of his is prevalent to this day.

Audience Question: I may be taking you further afield, but is this visual, visceral style brought on by Chandler one that necessarily de-emphasizes plot?

Steve: I don’t think so. Style is not everything. (Nor is image, much as Andre Agassi would have us believe on Canon's behalf.) Furthermore, …

Audience Question: [interrupting what would surely have been an insightful elaboration on the topic of substance v. style] But think back to the movies. When you picture Bogie and Bacall in The Big Sleep, do you remember the on-screen chemistry and the wise guy patter, or is it a plot detail, something like the perp who stole the falcon, that stuck with you?

Steve: Actually, wasn’t that Dashiell…

Audience member: [blurting out] For me, it’s Bogie and Bacall. Even in black and white they sizzle.

Steve: Admittedly, HumpBac, as I like to call them (retrofitting a nickname) were iconic, but…

Another audience member: Those couple combo names have kind of run their course, don’t you think? Who’s even together at this point? Certainly not Brangelina. TomKat? – no. Zanessa? – no.

Yet another voice from the audience: What about Bennifer? Are they? It’s hard to keep track.

And another: I don’t think so. I suppose Lizard (that is, Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton) were the first of the on-again, off-again power couples.

Host: I’m afraid we may be veering off course as litterateurs, my friends. This isn’t an episode of I Love Lucy, after all. Should we redirect ourselves? Steve?

Steve: Actually, that’s often how it works with me – seemingly on point for brief spurts before devolving into flapdoodle. Besides, I just thought of another one: Lucille Ball + Desi Arnaz. They’d be Ba, Bu, bu, b…

Susan (Steve's lovely): You’re mumbling in your sleep again.

Steve: Huh?

Susan: Must be another pizza dream.

Steve: Yeah, [shaking cobwebs from his head] that and the bibimbap I had for lunch. With extra hot sauce.

Susan: So what were you dreaming?

Steve: Ha, I think I was getting some kind of award and spouting complete nonsense, like in one of my Goodreads reviews where I have nothing to say but say it anyway. The only thing I remember from it is groping for a certain word.

Susan: Do you remember what it is?

Steve: Yeah. Ballsy.

Steve: [continuing, somewhat incredulous] I know, it doesn’t make any sense to me either.

Susan: Hmm. Definitely a pizza dream.

Definitely my favorite Chandler, beating out The Big Sleep by a star and more than a dozen memorable lines. This book is absolutely soaking in quotables and may have the best prose of any noir I’ve ever read. Add in a classic main character and a solid plot and you have a nice shiny bundle of win.
 
PHILIP MARLOWE:
 
Chandler’s iconic PI is an arrogant alcoholic who fails every PC test you can formulate. He’s racist (from what I recall he insults African-Americans, Japanese and Native Americans and maybe others), homophobic and sexist enough that I would blackjack him on the braincase before he ever got within 10 yards of either of my daughters.    
 
He’s also mesmerizing and fills up the page with his presence. His entertainment value is off the charts and he cracks wiser than anyone this side of Sam Spade. But whereas Hammett’s Spade is all slick, smoky quips and cat-like grace, Marlowe is the “other side of the tracks” version. He’s unkempt, rugged and surly and his words are crusty with barbs.
 
Whereas Spade’s every move seems coordinated and cross-referenced like a well-rehearsed play, Marlowe is all reaction, counterpunch and intuitive hunches.
 
However, like Spade, he’s also smart (much more than he usually lets on) and has a knack for clear thinking and being able to read people. Best of all though, the man is incapable of cutting slack or giving inches and is saltier than the Pacific Ocean.
 
THE PLOT:
 
A convoluted series of mini-mysteries all stemming from Marlowe’s search for the ex-girlfriend of a just released from prison man-mountain named Moose Malloy. Fairly typical noir stuff but very well executed and paced to perfection by Chandler.
 
THE WRITING:
 
Finally…the prose. The real star of the show. I would say Chandler’s writing is a masterful example of noir. There may be others as good but it is hard for me to imagine any better. I would put Chandler’s prose into 3 separate and equally impressive categories that you don’t usually see from a single pen. First, you have a whole host of “I have to remember that” lines that are just fun to read. Quotes like:
 
“The eighty-five cent dinner tasted like a discarded mail bag and was served to me by a waiter who looked as if he would slug me for a quarter, cut my throat for six bits and bury me at sea in a barrel of concrete for a dollar and a half, plus sales tax.”

“‘Who is the Hemingway person at all?’
A guy that keeps saying the same thing over and over until you begin to believe it must be good.”
 
“I didn’t say anything. I lit my pipe again. It makes you look thoughtful when you’re not thinking.”     
 
“It was a nice walk if you liked grunting.”
 
“She gave me a smile I could feel in my hip pocket.”
 
“I like smooth shiny girl, hardboiled and loaded with sin.”
 
“A Harvard boy. Nice use of the subjunctive mood. The end of my foot itched, but my bank account was still trying to crawl under a duck.”
 
Second, Chandler has a wonderful facility for painting descriptions so that you feel like you’re walking right beside Marlowe and he does it in such sparse, efficient style.

n  1644 West 54th Place was a dried-out brown house with a dried-out brown lawn in front of it. There was a large bare patch around a tough-looking palm tree. On the porch stood one lonely wooden rocker, and the afternoon breeze made the unprunned shoots of last year’s poinsettias tap-tap against the cracked stucco wall. A line of stiff yellowish half-washed clothes jittered on a rusty wire in the side yard.
…
I was looking into dimness at a blowsy woman who was blowing her nose as she opened the door. Her face was gray and puffy. She had weedy hair of that vague color which is neither brown nor blond, that hasn’t enough life in it to be ginger and isn’t clean enough to be gray. Her body was thick in a shapeless outing flannel bathrobe many moons past color and design. n

Those descriptions materialized in front of me more than pages of less polished prose could accomplish. It felt like I was there.

Finally, there are the passages that aren’t just clever quips or snappy dialogue, but that convey a real sense of emotion.
 
“She hung up, leaving me with a curious feeling of having talked to somebody that didn’t exist.”
 
“…a sudden flashing movement that I sensed rather than saw. A pool of darkness opened at my feet and was far, far deeper than the blackest night. I dived into it. It had no bottom.”
 
“There was just enough for to make everything seem unreal. The wet air was as cold as the ashes of love.”
 
That is the trifecta of writing. Brilliant, sharp and fun….descriptive, informative and polished…and evocative, moving and powerful.
 
Yes, 5.0 stars and a definite must read for fans of noir, mysteries or just superb prose.

HIGHEST POSSIBLE RECOMMENDATION!!

Reading Chandler For The First Time

I have read David Goodis, James Cain, and the two Library of America volumes of American noir from the 1930s -- 1950s, but I have only now read this book, "Farewell, My Lovely" (1940), my first by Raymond Chandler (1888 -- 1959). As do Goodis and Cain, for example, Chandler takes what is often regarded as the formulaic, stereotyped genre of American crime writing and transforms it into literature.

"Farewell, My Lovely" is Chandler's second novel featuring the private investigator Philip Marlowe, who became the model for many similar characters. The book is told in the first person and is set in Los Angeles and its environs. The plot of the novel is coincidence-ridden and somewhat patched together. It moves from a murder in an African American gambling establishment called Florian's to a jewel heist, a psychic, gambling ships, several more murders, and femme fatales. It takes time to get into the plotting and some of the elements appear not to add up.

The plotting is the least important element of this book, but at times it stands in the way. Much of the story gets tied together well at the end and it builds. "Farewell, My Lovely" has many other qualities that make it rewarding. These include Chandler's language, characterizations, sense of place, and view of the human condition, as I describe a little more below.

Marlowe speaks in the tough, hard-boiled style of a crime novel, but he has the poet's eye for detail as much as the gimlet eye of the detective. In particular, he shows a gift for the strikingly appropriate and imaginative metaphor or simile that leaps off almost every page.

Although a detective easily becomes a stock figure, Chandler's Marlowe is a complex person with vulnerabilities and flaws beneath a hard exterior. He is thoughtful as well as hard-drinking. Similarly, virtually every character in this book is well-defined. Chandler finds both good and bad in unlikely places and is attuned to the difficulties of understanding and categorizing any person.

Then, there is the portrayal of Los Angeles. Chandler concentrates of the poor seedy sections but also describes more economically comfortable areas together with suburbs and the water. He offers a sense of place and an eye for detail. He is one of a select group of writers, including Cain, Nathanael West, John Fante, and Charles Bukowski who make Los Angeles come to life.

Finally, Chandler offers a view of the human condition that includes each of these three elements and more and that turn "Farewell, My Lovely" into literature. The novel is sad and pessimistic in its view of life but shows as well understanding. "He's a sinner -- but he's human", one of the characters says to Marlowe late in the book in an observation that applies to the entire story. Individuals try to make their ways among corruption, sleaze, frustration, and sadness; but with toughness and a suggestion of the importance of fighting for the good. There are few heroes and few villains.

Here is a passage from late in the novel that captures the features I have tried to describe. Marlowe is lying in bed in a cheap waterfront hotel and thinks about some of the events and people that have figured in the story up to that point.

"It got darker. I thought; and thought in my mind moved with a kind of sluggish stealthiness, as if it was being watched by bitter and sadistic eyes, I thought of dead eyes looking at a moonless sky, with black blood at the corners of the mouths beneath them. I thought of nasty old women beaten to death against the posts of their dirty beds. I thought of a man with bright blond hair who was afraid and didn't quite know what he was afraid of, who was sensitive enough to know that something was wrong and too vain or too dull to guess what it was that was wrong. I thought of beautiful rich women who could be had. I thought of nice slim curious girls who lived alone and could be had too, in a different way. I thought of cops, tough cops that could be greased and yet were not by any means all bad... Fat prosperous cops with Chamber of Commerce voices.... Slim, smart and deadly cops... who for all their smartness and deadliness were not free to do a clean job in a clean way. I thought of sour old goats ... who had given up trying. I thought of Indians and psychotics and dope doctors." [Names of characters have been deleted from the quote.]

I was glad to get to know Chandler and Philip Marlowe at last through "Farewell, My Lovely". I also learned a great deal from some of the many thoughtful reader reviews of this book .

Robin Friedman

Blown away again. Chandler's hardboiled and often cheeky prose is simply masterful, along with a clever murder/heist plot and some unforgettable characters. Moose Malloy in particular, the gentle, yet deadly giant who is like one part Fezzik from the The Princess Bride and one part Lennie from Of Mice and Men. In what I can imagine must be the best Philip Marlowe scene of all times, he is drugged with truth serum and probably other illicit substances and locked up. Coming to, he clambers through some wacky, yet Philip Marlowe-esqe hardboiled delusions, half knowing himself to be hallucinating. Rather like imagining Kojak coming down from an LSD trip. Classic.

The second Philip Marlowe novel, and another hard boiled classic. The plot is less labyrinthine than The Big Sleep, but still far from simple. It involves a random murder, jewel theft, a second seemingly unrelated murder, a third murder that seems to tie the first and second ones, a bogus psychic, a shady sanitarium, and a couple less-than-trustworthy dames. A scene in which Marlowe is drugged and locked in a sanitarium is especially great, as is his escape. Marlowe, who spends the majority of the book drunk or hungover, moves comfortably between the various communities and classes in and around his Los Angeles home. He’s angry and horny throughout the novel, adhering to his internal code of ethics, but only barely. And I enjoy seeing Marlowe in that grey area, struggling to stay above water, to stay alive, to solve the mystery at great expense to his own well-being. Because that’s what Philip Marlowe does.

FAREWELL MY LOVELY is Raymond Chandler’s intricate, intriguing masterpiece set in 1930s Los Angeles where no one seems to mind that it’s 100 degrees and there’s no air conditioning. Private detective, Phillip Marlow gets mixed up with a complex diamond stealing scam, shady cops, sadistic mystics, a jumbo ex-con, and of course a gorgeous, noir-mystery blond. You know the type: “a blond to make a bishop kick in a stained glass window.” And there’s the point right there. It’s not the crafty plot, the hard-boiled attitude, the dangerous characters, or the noir settings. It’s the words. Raymond Chandler can describe things in amazing ways. 

“The eighty five cent dinner tasted like a discarded mail bag.” “The wet air was as cold as the ashes of love.” “Suspicion climbed all over her face, like a kitten but not so playful.” “I like smooth shiny girls, hardboiled and loaded with sin.” “A wedge of sunlight slipped over the edge of the desk and fell noiselessly onto the carpet.” “It was a nice face, pretty, but not so pretty you would have to wear brass knuckles every time you took it out.” “On the other side of the road was a raw clay bank at the edge of which a few unbeatable wild flowers hung on like naughty children that won’t go to bed.” 

It’s enough to make us would-be mystery writers realize that the descriptions in our latest manuscripts are as limp and unappetizing as the leftover lettuce from last week's cheeseburger.

The second in the Philip Marlowe series in which he gets caught up in a murder connected to a ring of jewel thieves. It is always good to follow these stories of the hard drinking detective and this is a fairly good story. Unfortunately, it drifts in the middle and comes to its completion much later than I would have liked. It almost seems as if the publishers ask the author if he could stretch the story by adding another hundred pages in the middle. Enough Chandler there to make it a worthwhile, but possibly not his best.

COUNTDOWN: Mid-20th Century North American Crime
BOOK 127 (of 250)
Great, pivitol scene here involving our P.I. imprisoned in an unknown room. He rips through a mattress and uses the bedsprings as a weapon to escape. There is smoke and fire involved and...oh, that's the same scene Dashiell Hammett wrote in 'Red Harvest' in 1929. But if you're going to imitate (at best) a great author 10 years later, Hammett is a great one. At worst, an author might think enough time has passed so that no one will notice.
HOOK - 3 stars: "It was one of those mixed blocks over on Central Avenue, the blocks that are not yet all Negro. I had just come out of a 3-chair barber shop...[the barber's] wife said she was willing to spend a little money to have him come home. I never found him, but Mrs. Aleidis never paid me any money either." Chandler drops us right down in the middle of a case: Marlowe has failed on his job and made no money. I like that Chandler allows Marlowe to fail: perhaps he'll succeed (or not?) on his next case and that added element lends a bit of immediate suspense. And Chandler even waits 9 lines before giving us a weather report! (The very laziest of authors often open with a lazy, cliched weather report. Danielle Steele did it in 90% of her books, for example.)
PACE - 2: A 2-page bug story exploring all corners of the room had me frustrated. I know Chandler is saying Marlowe feels trapped, sometimes, by his career choice, but 1 line saying a bug crawled from corner to corner would have been sufficient. There are other examples. That said, I read this right after a blazing, one-sit read of "Red Harvest" and probably anything would have felt a bit slow.
PLOT - 4: Beautifully done. Massive Moose Malloy is released from an 8-year prison sentence, and he goes looking for his long lost love, Velma. There is a theft of a $100,000 rare jade necklace, the theives negotiating the return. There is a very wealthy young woman who tries to seduce Marlowe as her older husband looks on. A psychic might be involved in blackmail. Yes, there are multiple plot lines and Chandler offers tantalizing clues as to how everything might come together. And the last 25 pages or so read perfectly as all plot lines come together. I'd go with 5 stars, but a couple of scenes are just too similar to scenes Hammett had done 10 years earlier.
CHARACTERS - 2: I heard Chandler's unfortunate voice speak clearly in "Big Sleep" as there were too many derogatory terms used, specifically regarding race. Here, on the second page, Chandler refers to a young black man as 'it' 7 times: the first time I tried to read this book I stopped right there. But I've read some of Chandler's later novels which avoid racism and I know this novel is very well regarded. Chandler's voice is still here with racism, sexism, and off-the-charts xenophobia: Chandler's voice is THE leading character, unfortunately. All that said, Moose Malloy, Ann Riordan, Amthor and others are interesting, so I'll give the book a second star as a few characters do overshadow Chandler.
ATMOSPHERE - 5: There is a lot of drinking. A LOT: "She poured us some more Scotch. It didn't seem to affect her any more than water affects Boulder Dam." And there are some really nice lines describing Southern California like: "The smell of sage drifted up from a canyon and made me think of a dead man and a moonless sky. Straggly stucco houses were molded flat to the side of the hill, like bas-reliefs. Then, there were no more houses, just the still, dark foothills with an early star or two above them..." Chandler knows the area, the geography, obviously very well. Atmosphere is the star of this work.
SUMMARY - My overall rating is 3.2. Chandler's later work is better, in my opinion. (And I've read what I consider his best work that's to be reviewed later.)

Some dithering on my part between 4 and 5 stars—but I am going for 5 because I so enjoyed the reading experience.

I fear that I will repeat myself a lot from my review of The Big Sleep. Chandler’s writing is awesome—very expressive, yet very spare. Each novel is a complete joy, but not padded with anything extra. Occasional, brief descriptions of surroundings paint a full picture with very few strokes. His vocabulary choices are spot on. A delight to read.

I very much receive the impression that Philip Marlowe is Raymond Chandler’s alter-ego, the man that he fantasized about being. Handsome, brave, always knowing what to do, street smart, alluring to the ladies, and able to handle his liquor or a punch to the face. By all accounts a troubled man, Chandler certainly wrote the drinking scenes like he knew what he was talking about. It may have been the thing that he and Marlowe shared most in common.

Beautiful writing about less than beautiful subjects—Chandler is one of the masters.