"Raymond" and "Chandler". When taken separately these words have a myriad of uses and meanings, but when taken together in the strict ordering "Raymond Chandler" they only mean one thing: excellence in storytelling.

If you like any of his work whether in film or written form, then pick this up and get your little heart going pit-a-pat. Am I exaggerating? Perhaps a little, but the man was a master of detective fiction, a craftsman who created characters and plots that are so good, so iconic, and so fulfilling that Hollywood has remade "The Big Sleep" as often as it has any book of Hammett's ("The Maltese Falcon" was also filmed twice).

In some ways, I think that Chandler's work is more seductive, more flowing than Hammett's. Sam Spade is a louder, brasher man than Philip Marlowe in my mind. Is it a real, quantitative difference, or is it a perception flaw: Spade is named for a tool, Marlowe carries the name of a great writer of the past. What I can say without hesitation or qualification is that both men and their creations are "must reads"!

Here is a book where we get to see what Chandler himself thinks of detective stories and how they need to be constructed. Even if you have no interest in writing, this is a wonderful look at the man who gave us such some of the best in the genre.

(Yet another book read a long while back.)

read for my pulp fiction class

A collection of Raymond Chandler's non-Marlowe detective stories.

Mystery Review: The Simple Art of Murder is highlighted by an introductory essay that sounds like a fussy uncle trying to justify hard-boiled detective fiction by decrying how contrived and lacking in personality are some traditional mysteries. He makes some valid points, but without landing a punch on the cozy mystery. Raymond Chandler (1888-1959) wrote 25 short stories, which fall into three groups. First, there are the Philip Marlowe stories, four of which are currently collected in Trouble is My Business and one that isn't. Then there are the eight stories he "cannibalized" for his novels and chose not to republish (first collected in Killer In the Rain (1964)). Finally, there are the rest of the stories, twelve in all. Four consist of two "odd" mysteries, a Gothic Romance, and his first published story, "Blackmailers Don't Shoot" (1933), which seemingly should have been included in this collection. The remaining eight stories, all hard-boiled mysteries, are collected in The Simple Art of Murder. In these eight pieces Chandler seemed to be trying out various ideas for a series detective, though he was probably just trying to sell stories. Oddly, only one is written in the first-person narration that Chandler later adopted for his best known creation. He creates a Latino police detective who gets suspended; a hotel detective with a brother in the mob; a fired hotel detective; a wealthy dilettante known to "talk the way Jane Austen writes"; a gambling undercover man; John Dalmas, a private detective who appeared in another story was later renamed Philip Marlowe; Ted Carmady who also popped up in another story and was later renamed Marlowe, but in this one is a well-connected man about town; and a gambler involved with the wrong crowd. All are tough guys who can take a punch, dish it out, down a drink or six, and try to do the right thing. None of the detectives are quite as noble as Marlowe, however. And none of the stories have the witty banter of the best of the Marlowe novels. All the stories are interesting, twisty, and have enough action for Hollywood. A couple stories are too clever for their own good, getting more convoluted than necessary without a road map. Chandler was known to disdain plot for character, and succeeded most of the time as he does in The Simple Art of Murder. [4★]

Worth owning for the opening essay; his closing words on the detective hero are unexpectedly moving. The rest of this collection is composed of short stories pre-dating Marlowe, a fascinating glimpse into the development of both Chandler as an author and Marlowe as a character.

I really have no idea why this is included in the Phillip Marlowe cannon when he isn't mentioned once. Although the opening essay, The Simple Art of Murder, made it worth reading alone and not being a short story lover, I was surprised to enjoy the rest immensely.

With all of the hard-boiled characters, I wonder if that was really L.A. at the time, the parts that Chandler saw, or an expansion of what was real and what readers wanted. There's no doubt that there were areas of L.A. life that were corrupt; think of the studios covering up scandals, the cops on the take that were documented later if not at the time, the hint of gangsterism, the nightclub floor shows that could lead to issues with let's say a criminal and emotional element and even the effects of prohibition on many large cities. Still, I wonder if my grandparents experienced this at all with his button-down shirts and suits, or my grandmother who stayed at home to watch the kids until they were old enough for her to fulfill her dream of going back to work. Their city, Glendale, is mentioned often, however, maybe they kept their nose clean and he kept his head to the ground stone, achieving the what served as the American dream of the time. I wish I had thought to ask before we lost them. (add that to the huge list of things that I wish I'd asked them before Alzheimer's and death took them from us)

Back to the stories.....They all had that biting wit that Chandler and the genre is/was known for. I read it in paper and found at the end that it was filled with sticky notes of lines that made me laugh or were such dead-on descriptions of life and people that they were priceless. Some of the characters were honest to goodness Private Dicks and others were men with too much time and money on their hands that seemed to be smart, yet always in the wrong place at the wrong time and couldn't say no to getting involved.

Even in contemporary settings, I enjoy the gritty settings and this didn't disappoint. I could investigate why the low-down gritty appeals to me, but Freud is gone and I can guess that it has something to do with my comfortable all-girls private school upbringing and how when I was out of that, life felt like a shocking dirty trick.

As I said, if nothing else, read the opening essay, The Simple Art of Murder, it will make you ponder why the genre is so popular in one form or another and why one style appeals to you more than others. I was reminded of de Quincey's, On Murder Considered as Fine Art, which was half a joke, half true and pushed the genre along on its path.

An excerpt from the short story "I'll Be Waiting".....

At one o'clock in the morning, Carl, the night porter, turned down the last of three table lamps in the main lobby of the Windermere Hotel. The blue carpet darkened a shade or two and the walls drew back into remoteness. The chairs filled with shadowy loungers. In the corners were memories like cobwebs.

Tony Reseck yawned. He put his head on one side and listened to the frail, twittery music from the radio room beyond a dim arch at the far side of the lobby. He frowned. That should be his radio room after one A.M. Nobody should be in it. That red-haired girl was spoiling his nights.

The frown passed and a miniature of a smile quirked at the corners of his lips. He sat relaxed, a short, pale, paunchy, middle-aged man with long, delicate fingers clasped on the elk's tooth on his watch chain; the long delicate fingers of a sleightof-hand artist, fingers with shiny, molded nails and tapering first joints, fingers a little spatulate at the ends. Handsome fingers. Tony Reseck rubbed them gently together and there was peace in his quiet sea-gray eyes.

The frown came back on his face. The music annoyed him. He got up with a curious litheness, all in one piece, without moving his clasped hands from the watch chain. At one moment he was leaning back relaxed, and the next he was standing balanced on his feet, perfectly still, so that the movement of rising seemed to be a thing perfectly perceived, an error of vision.

He walked with small, polished shoes delicately across the blue carpet and under the arch. The music was louder. It contained the hot, acid blare, the frenetic, jittering runs of a jam session. It was too loud. The red-haired girl sat there and stared silently at the fretted part of the big radio cabinet as though she could see the band with its fixed professional grin and the sweat running down its back. She was curled up with her feet under her on a davenport which seemed to contain most of the cushions in the room. She was tucked among them carefully, like a corsage in the florist's tissue paper.

She didn't turn her head. She leaned there, one hand in a small fist on her peach-colored knee. She was wearing lounging pajamas of heavy ribbed silk embroidered with black lotus buds.

"You like Goodman, Miss Cressy?" Tony Reseck asked.

The girl moved her eyes slowly. The light in there was dim, but the violet of her eyes almost hurt. They were large, deep eyes without a trace of thought in them. Her face was classical and without expression.

She said nothing.

Tony smiled and moved his fingers at his sides, one by one, feeling them move. "You like Goodman, Miss Cressy?" he repeated gently.

"Not to cry over," the girl said tonelessly.

Tony rocked back on his heels and looked at her eyes. Large, deep, empty eyes. Or were they? He reached down and muted the radio.

"Don't get me wrong," the girl said. "Goodman makes money, and a lad that makes legitimate money these days is a lad you have to respect. But this jitterbug music gives me the backdrop of a beer flat. I like something with roses in it."

"Maybe you like Mozart," Tony said.

"Go on, kid me," the girl said.

"I wasn't kidding you, Miss Cressy. I think Mozart was the greatest man that ever lived-and Toscanini is his prophet."

"I thought you were the house dick." She put her head back on a pillow and stared at him through her lashes.

"Make me some of that Mozart," she added.

"It's too late," Tony sighed. "You can't get it now."

She gave him another long lucid glance. "Got the eye on me, haven't you, flatfoot?" She laughed a little, almost under her breath. "What did I do wrong?"

Tony smiled his toy smile. "Nothing, Miss Cressy. Nothing at all. But you need some fresh air. You've been five days in this hotel and you haven't been outdoors. And you have a tower room."

She laughed again. "Make me a story about it. I'm bored."

"There was a girl here once had your suite. She stayed in the hotel a whole week, like you. Without going out at all, I mean. She didn't speak to anybody hardly. What do you think she did then?"

The girl eyed him gravely. "She jumped her bill."

He put his long delicate hand out and turned it slowly, fluttering the fingers, with an effect almost like a lazy wave breaking. "Unh-uh. She sent down for her bill and paid it. Then she told the hop to be back in half an hour for her suitcases. Then she went out on her balcony."

Let's break it down : A guy has a shitty night job, but keeps a keen eye out for what's going on; walks across lobby and has a chat with a feisty broad. That's all.

But that's all that's necessary. Sense of place, nearly instantaneous character development, and then quickly, Conflict. All kept very close to the bone and the pace never falters; that's just how it's done, fast, tactile, no distraction, like surgery.

19 apr 15
#11 from chandler
20 apr 15
finished. good read. the essay before the stories is good, too.

Prefer Chandler's novels.

The essay at the beginning of the book is worth the time for its cutting analysis of the detective story, its detailed descriptions of how famous authors are incapable of producing "realistic" fiction, and its praise for the emerging hard-boiled hero who is bringing the mystery genre into more compelling territory. The rest of the book demonstrates that Chandler apparently never used the same cutting intellect when looking at his own writings.

It's mentally staggering to me that the same author who (rightly) claims that the puzzles in most classic detective stories render them contrived, can in the next few pages write females who faint and cry at the slightest provocation, craft dialogue that is only timeless by dating itself, and pen stories that develop character and motivations about as well as a Saturday morning cartoon shorts (and I might still give the shorts the prize since I like animation.)

It's completely possible that I am a "flustered old lady"  "And there are still quite a few people around who say that Hammett did not write detective stories at all, merely hardboiled chronicles of mean streets with a perfunctory mystery element dropped in like the olive in a martini. These are the flustered old ladies–of both sexes (or no sex) and almost all ages–who like their murders scented with magnolia blossoms and do not care to be reminded that murder is an act of infinite cruelty, even if the perpetrators sometimes look like playboys or college professors or nice motherly women with softly graying hair."  It's true, I'll never like stories that casually use "broad" or "dame" without even a hint of irony. The same way I am apparently a fuddy-duddy when I dislike fiction which only uses people of color as idiots/strong-men so that it can then apply every derogatory phrase possible.

The interesting part, is that Chandler was right in many of his criticisms for "golden age mysteries." Sherlock WAS a personality with a few excellent quotes more than he was a realistic forensic detective. Sayers DOES have to deaden many of her characters so that they can fit the mold of a murder mystery script. Christie WAS more concerned about making her settings exciting and Poirot brilliant than she was with the actual business of crime. I imagine for Chandler, the mafia, crime rings, and corrupt politicians/police of his experience, made the white-washed cozy literary fare of most detective stories seem to be childish and idealistic attempts to rationalize crime. I agree with him... to a point.
The problem is that many of the "realistic" and "great" fictions of history don't just state reality as it is (Chandler's thesis) but provide commentary, empathy, and consideration for the characters and the world at large, inviting the reader to learn and grow from the experience.
If I take Chandler's detectives and world for their experience, women are idiots, detectives who aren't corrupt are miserable, and the ones who are corrupt are still miserable, so everyone can get drunk together in commiseration. (No wonder Chandler seems to like Hemingway)
That's all fine and dandy, except for it's boring and repetitive after 2-3 excursions into the smoke-filled, cold-eyed, money-obsessed world in Chandler's imagination. What's more, modern detective authors are finding incredible ways of addressing his original complaints without falling into his pitfalls. (Name of the Rose

One final complaint because I might as well: overly-descriptive, smoke-colored, honey-scented, otherwise hyphenated, adjectives do not literature make . I don't know why every character, item, and atmospheric shift needed its own color, but I might ask Stephen King to add adjectives to his kill-list alongside ly-adverbs if I ever decide to read Chandler again.

Positive notes: The essay was excellent even if I disagreed with his conclusion (4 stars for making me think and argue back at it). There were 2-3 short stories that I didn't hate because they had a little bit of a plot, some atmosphere, and an actual idea for the reader to grab onto (a friendship, a problem, a villain).

Mr. Chandler is simply put, the master!
just doesn't get any better than this!

Anyone who wants to write in this hardboiled, noir style vein simply must read this. And not just once!

He writes scenes like no one else can. Present, fast paced, exciting, action packed, on the move!
His characters are tough, and bleed out onto the page in your face as you read. Makes you feel like you're actually there in the midst of all the action with them, and that, is about as good as it gets!

Will return to this over and over again, for writing inspiration, and pure enjoyment!

Chander publicó esta obra en 1950, tras haber escrito un gran número de relatos en revistas de papel barato, denominadas "pulp fiction", así como, tras publicar cinco novelas de Philip Marlowe.
En mi opinión, hay tres partes bien definidas en "El simple arte de matar": la introducción de Chandler, los tres relatos que incluye esta edición y el ensayo final, que lleva el título de la novela.
En la introducción, Chandler realiza una defensa enérgica de las novelas detectivescas del tipo de las que aparecían en el pulp "Black Mask" (revista en la que se publicaban y de dónde les vino el sobrenombre de género de novela negra), a las que también llama "relato duro", que se contrapone a las novelas detectivescas corrientes, más del gusto de la crítica ordinaria contemporánea.
Estos relatos fueron tachados de infraliteratura en su día, de poco menos que literatura ligera escritas por junta letras sin talento. Chandler rebatirá esa acusación, señalando a los editores de esas revistas de papel barato como los impulsores de esa formula, a la que los escritores tenían que ceñirse a rajatabla si no querían ver sus manuscritos rechazados. Se dibujaba una realidad según la cual "los personajes vivían en un mundo enloquecido, un mundo en el cual, mucho antes de la bomba atómica, la civilización había creado la maquinaria necesaria para su propia destrucción y aprendía a usarla con todo el placer infrahumano de un gangster que probara su primera ametralladora".
La segunda parte tiene tres relatos: "Las perlas son una molestia", "El denunciante" y "El rey amarillo".
La tercera parte contiene su ensayo "El simple arte de matar", en el que Chandler disertará sobre el arte de escribir buena novela detectivesca y dónde también realizará una encendida defensa de la obra de Dashiel Hammett, perseguido por la caza de brujas impulsado por el macartismo.

A collection of stories and an essay. A must read for Chandler fans.