She was the first thing I saw when I walked into the bookstore. Such a looker that I damn near tripped over a stack of calf-high hardbacks set next to a stand of morning papers.

"I'm sorry," she said. "We're not quite open yet."

"That's okay," I told her. "Neither are my eyes."

I could tell right away I wasn't going to win any hosannas by being a smart-aleck. So I continued, "I need a book. Something fun but dark. I'm looking at five hundred miles today, but I'm not in the mood for an epic. Noir, maybe. It takes a lot of plot to get through Tennessee."

She went to the shelves and started looking at the books. I was looking at her looking at the books. I'm pretty sure I had the better view.

"Try this." She handed me a trade paper---nothing flashy. Minimalist even. But I recognized it, and the title went down like a good steak. "You ever read it before?"

"The Big Sleep? Sure. It's been twenty years, though. I don't remember much."

"Literary hair of the dog," she nodded. "It should suit you. It's got a dead dirty books dealer, a nympho with a pistol, some scrape-ups, and a lot of snap-cracklin' wit. Maybe one or two too many jawbreakers, but there's no mush. My guess? You'll hit the FINIS before you make Cullman."

Something caught my eye. Outside, three cruts piling out of a red pickup. I thought about the night before, the money at the casino one interstate exit up, the deal that didn't go down so straight. I looked at my scraped knuckles and licked the cut in my gums. I hoped I made it to Cullman. Hell, I hoped I could make it to a last page.

"What about the sentences?" I asked.

"What about them? You start with the big letter and follow the rest to the dot at the end. That's all you need to know about sentences, Jack."

"I like mine short, but not stuttery. Any joe who speaks one-word ones is likely to get a smack upside the head from me. By the same token, I don't go for gabbers. Long, windy ones give me an ache. You know why? Because long sentences are a tough chew when you're sporting a busted rib or two."

She saw the cruts outside. They hadn't spotted me, but I wasn't lucky enough to stay the invisible joe indefinitely.

"You got a broken rib, do you?" She was watching the dufuses outside.

"Not right now, but something tell me I will before I get to Chapter 2." An idea came to mind. "Hey, how about you give a dying man his wish and read me a paragraph or two of this Chandler guy?"

She took the book back, not looking at it but looking at me, not a dab of fear in her eyes, but hard as a charcoal and twice as haughty. For a second I wondered what it would cost me for her and the book both, but what with the ride I was headed for, I didn't need any baggage.

She opened the book and purred out the antepenultimate paragraph. You know the one: the one that explains the title. The big sleep. It had the kind of sentences a man could die for. With my luck, I probably would.

"You better ring me up," I said. The cruts had spotted the bookstore and were headed for its door. They knew me too well.

"I'll pay cash," I told her. "Because neither of us has time for credit."

"If you ever get back to town, swing by. I stock noir like air. I'll hook you up."

"Sure. If I make it back. Maybe then I can swallow a longer paragraph."

I was on my way to head off the cruts when I nearly tripped again over the stack of hardbacks next to the morning papers.

"You sell many of these?" I asked.

"Not a one," she shrugged.

I looked at my name on the book jacket.

"Figures," I shrugged back.

I set it back on the stack---gently, because tossing it would've been ungentlemanly---and I stepped outside to meet my fate.

Damn if the little livro pusher didn't do me right. The Big Sleep turned out pretty durable, especially for a trade paper.

Just ask the first crut who came at me. He crumpled the second he took its spine upside the temple.

I probably wouldn’t have picked up The Big Sleep if I wasn’t attempting to make my way through the Pop Chart 100 Essential Books list. This novel presents an odd reading experience.

On one hand, Philip Marlowe is an outstanding character, a cornerstone of the hard-boiled detective genre. His continuous observations of the world around him are beautifully written in a style that seems almost clichéd yet is executed so well that they still hold great charm. For instance,

Over the entrance doors, which would have let in a troop of Indian elephants, there was a broad stained-glass panel showing a knight in dark armor rescuing a lady who was tied to a tree and didn’t have any clothes on but some very long and convenient hair. The knight had pushed the vizor of his helmet back to be sociable, and he was fiddling with the knots on the ropes that tied the lady to the tree and not getting anywhere. I stood there and thought that if I lived in the house, I would sooner or later have to climb up there and help him. He didn’t seem to be really trying.
…
She was puzzled. She was thinking. I could see, even on that short acquaintance, that thinking was always going to be a bother to her.
…
The General spoke again, slowly, using his strength as carefully as an out-of-work show-girl uses her last good pair of stockings.
…
So the first thought is somebody rolls him for it and rolls him too hard, so they have to take him out in the desert and plant him among the cactuses.

However, there are many aspects of this book that I found challenging. Gay slurs are abundant, and the casual depiction of slapping women around is not a pleasant sight, even considering the book is nearly 80 years old. What disappointed me even more was the plot itself. The reader is provided with very few clues until the final pages of the book regarding what is truly happening or what Marlowe is even investigating. And similar to the joke that Indiana Jones’s presence changes nothing in Raiders of the Lost Ark, Marlowe’s presence and actions in The Big Sleep alter almost nothing in the plot.

I’m not regretful for having read this book, but I must admit that I preferred The Maltese Falcon. The Big Sleep is worth reading for its atmosphere and characters, but one should be aware going in that the story is ultimately less than the sum of its parts.

Raymond Chandler's "The Big Sleep" is a classic detective novel that features the private investigator Philip Marlowe. Hired by a dying millionaire to deal with a blackmailer targeting one of his daughters, Marlowe gets more than he bargained for as he follows a labyrinthine path of clues. Despite not usually caring for detective novels or series, I read "The Big Sleep" based on its reputation as great literature. I discovered two excellent things about it: its reputation is deserved, and it's a fraction of the size of other classic titles and paced like a bullet train. The writing is what makes it a masterpiece, with Chandler's Marlowe serving as a droll tour-guide of 1930s Los Angeles. While the characters may not have a lot of psychological depth, they are well-drawn and memorable. "The Big Sleep" is a beautiful expression of crime noir, with its various L.A. locations, crummy P.I. office, day-drinking, smoking, and parade of low-lifes, mobsters, and femme-fatales. Despite some retrograde views and plot-holes, it feels oddly perfect and is a wonderful example of the heights to which genre fiction can rise.

"The game I play is not spillikins. There’s always a large element of bluff connected with it…When you hire a boy in my line of work it isn’t like hiring a window-washer and showing him eight windows and saying: ‘Wash those and you’re through.’ You don’t know what I have to go through or over or under to do your job for you. I do it my way. I do my best to protect you and I may break a few rules, but I break them in your favor. The client comes first, unless he’s crooked. Even then all I do is hand the job back to him and keep my mouth shut…”

- Raymond Chandler, The Big Sleep



Raymond Chandler’s The Big Sleep is not the type of book I usually read. I don't really care for detective novels, or multi-layered mysteries, or books in a series sharing the same protagonist. However, Chandler's classic novel, a striking example of so-called “hardboiled” fiction, fits all three categories.



The Big Sleep features a private investigator named Philip Marlowe, who is hired by an old, dying millionaire to deal with a blackmailer targeting one of his daughters. In the process of investigation, Marlowe gets more than he expected as the clues lead him down a complex path filled with increasing number of dead bodies.



My tastes haven't changed. I still don't really care for detective novels or mysteries, and starting a new book series is the last thing I need in my reading life. Instead, I came to The Big Sleep because of its reputation as great literature. I read it for the same reason I read War and Peace, Moby Dick, and Les Misérables: its lofty status.



After finishing the book, I found two excellent aspects. First, its reputation is well-deserved. Second, it is much shorter than the aforementioned titles and is paced very fast. I could probably read it five times before finishing David Copperfield.



The novel begins with Marlowe arriving at the mansion of General Sternwood on a rainy October morning. Marlowe, who narrates in the first-person, is looking dapper in his suit and tie. He is given the task of tracking down the blackmailer and keeping things quiet. The setup is interesting, but saying more about the plot would spoil the twists and turns.



Overall, Chandler's core design is satisfying. It keeps the reader on their toes, is tricky but not incomprehensible, and is surprising without being implausible. There are some loose ends, but they don't detract from the overall enjoyment of the book. The writing is what makes The Big Sleep a masterpiece. Chandler's Marlowe is a witty and deadpan guide to 1930s Los Angeles. His descriptions are vivid, and the dialogue is full of jargon and idioms. While the characters may not have a lot of psychological depth, they are well-described and memorable.



I can't compare Chandler to his contemporaries as I haven't read their works. However, I can say that The Big Sleep is a great example of crime noir. It has all the elements: the L.A. locations, the seedy P.I. office, the drinking and smoking, and the parade of criminals and femme-fatales. It was a fun read, despite some of its outdated views on race, homosexuality, and women. These views are understandable given the time period in which the book was written, but they may also reflect the author's true perspective.



Originally published in 1939, "The Big Sleep" incorporates elements from Chandler's earlier short stories. Some things got lost in the process, and there are a few plot-holes. However, I didn't really care. Despite its flaws, "The Big Sleep" feels perfect. It accomplishes what it sets out to do with great skill. Chandler's commitment to the story is impressive, and he nails the language, the one-liners, and Marlowe's cynical worldview. In every aspect, it is a wonderful example of how good genre fiction can be.

Third Reading and I'm a Chandler Convert!

  

"She's a grifter. I'm a grifter. We're all grifters. So we sell each other out for a nickel."

You know that thing about there being the 'right' and 'wrong' time to come to a book? Well, the first time I tried Chandler, I really disliked this book (see original 2* review below). But it's been bothering me that so many people whose tastes I respect and often share revere him. So, I decided to give it another go, and this time, we really clicked!



I'm still not completely convinced that Chandler is the literary genius that some people claim (to be fair, though, this is the only book of his I've read). However, I really liked the snappy pace, the noir atmosphere, and the way Marlowe is both laconic and verbally extravagant with those similes. The stained glass window showing a knight rescuing a damsel is a great analogue to Marlowe himself, albeit in a powder-blue suit. And the head-spinning plot never gets dull. Hurrah - I'll definitely read more Marlowe now.



----------------------------------------------



  

What did it matter where you lay once you were dead? In a dirty sump or in a marble tower on top of a high hill? You were dead, you were sleeping the big sleep

So... this was my first Chandler book, and it came with a lot of recommendations from friends. But, to be honest, it was just an okay read for me. I can see how this would have had a big impact on the crime genre in 1939, bringing a literary sensibility to what was basically pulp fiction. But today, it feels a bit tired and old-fashioned.



A lot depends on whether you:



A) like Chandler's writing style: 'he wore a blue uniform that fitted him the way a stall fits a horse', 'a screen-star's boudoir, a place of charm and seduction, artificial as a wooden leg'; and



B) can tolerate the casual and widespread racism, homophobia, and misogyny.



A crucial moment for me was when I read this: 'She didn't mind the slap...Probably all her boy friends got around to slapping her sooner or later. I could understand how they might.' Uh, yeah, great...



On the plus side, I was interested to see how the hard-boiled noir genre developed, especially the way it influenced contemporary writers like James Ellroy, who looks back on the era and its values with a modern, jaundiced eye.



But Chandler? Not for me.

I sat in my office (also known as the living room), my mind filled with hard-boiled thoughts. Smoking has never been my thing, but I had one of those candy cigarettes. It didn't mix well with the scotch, so I stuck with the candy and skipped the drink.

Then, I heard someone clear her throat. She was the most beautiful woman I'd ever laid eyes on, but I knew she spelled trouble from the moment she walked in. My suspicions were confirmed when she said, "Honey, don't you think you have too many books? It's not that I object to them, but you haven't even read half of what's in that bookcase, and you keep bringing in more."

"Nonsense!" I retorted. "One can never have too many books or witty one-liners to pull out in the future."

"Well, what about this one?" she asked, randomly selecting a book from the case.

I nodded, stalling for time. "The Big Sleep. 1939. Raymond Chandler. It inspired a Bogart movie of the same name. It's not a bad flick. A classic, really."

"But have you read the book?" she pressed.

"…"

"Well?"

My wife always saw right through me.

"No, but it's next on my list," I admitted.

So, over the next few nights, I delved into the book. I tried not to notice the occasional smile on her face when she caught me reading. Her point had been made, but once I started this case, I had to see it through to the end.

"Well," she said as I finally put the book down for the last time. "What did you think?"

"It's a product of its time," I said, a touch of sadness in my voice. "There's some blatant homophobia and a few odd moments where Marlow seems more appalled by 'dirty' books than by murder. The plot is overly complicated, but that's par for the course with this style. Unfortunately, some of it didn't quite sit right with me in terms of the storyline. It almost feels like Chandler took two 100-page stories and slapped them together to call it a novel."

"How's the prose?" she inquired.

"Sparse… like the review I'm going to write. But that's not really a problem. It suits the genre. That being said, I think Chandler spends more time describing women's legs than anything except a fight scene."

"So, you didn't like it?"

"I didn't say that… Overall, despite my gripes, the book is solid. Quite entertaining and worth a read. There's a great running gag with a gunman saying 'Go – yourself' and yes, the '—' is actually there instead of the word. It's played for laughs masterfully, and he repeats it so often that Marlow gets some great lines out of it." I smiled. He of the limited vocabulary, indeed.

I thought about it a bit more. "I think my favorite part is the knight metaphors. Marlow notices a picture of a knight trying to rescue a woman in the general's home, but remarks that the knight seems to be failing. He also keeps a chessboard in his apartment, with problems on it to help him focus. He notes at one point that the current problem on the board 'wasn't a game for knights'. That's clever and a great metaphor for Marlow himself. To some extent, he's defending the general's honor, but the world he's in is no place for a knight."

"So yeah, overall a solid three stars... There are some great moments, and I enjoyed spending time with the cast of eccentric characters, but I guess I just prefer my detective novels to be a little more focused and a bit less meandering."

She glared at me for a moment. "But you like Hammett?"

I shrugged. "There's always an exception to the rule."

We sat in silence for a moment. "So… what about those other books in the case?"

I rolled over and pretended to sleep. One case at a time. This case was closed, and it was time to get some shut-eye… but only a little.

Finally, I have had the pleasure of meeting Raymond Chandler's LA PI, Philip Marlowe. The story, written in 1939, was Chandler's first novel, although he had already written stories and had a love for all kinds of pulp fiction. As I was reading, I couldn't help but think about how many books I've read in a similar style, with great action and sarcastic, off-handed remarks. It seems that this style began in the 1920s during the gangster-Prohibition era and then moved into dime novels and magazines. I bet that many of the books I've enjoyed were either inspired by or at least influenced by Chandler.

In this story, Marlowe has been hired by a wealthy, wheelchair-bound old man whose two daughters are extremely spoiled and wild. Marlowe is being blackmailed, and he has a meeting with the eldest daughter, Mrs. Regan. She had married three times, and her latest husband, an Irish bootlegger, has disappeared. This is also the part where Bogie meets Bacall in the film, although her marital status and name were changed to appease the censors back then. Mrs. Regan has a drink, and then another, without offering anything to Marlowe.

Marlowe tries to figure out exactly what her father has hired him for. Is it to find her "missing" husband? Marlowe doesn't say. She tries to cross-examine him, but he won't give in. There is blood, there are bodies, and this is not a polite, cosy crime story. But it sure is entertaining. I can see how Chandler and Marlowe captured the imagination of so many readers. If you want a better review, read the one my GR friend Aditya wrote, which convinced me that I must read this book. I'm sure this book is available at all good libraries, in one form or another.

Now I truly understand why Philip Marlowe serves as the archetype for all those trench-coated private eyes that I have witnessed in countless films throughout the years.

There is an undeniable poetry within the 'Marlowian' soliloquies. It's a kind of literary charm that I firmly believe Bukowski, with his own unique style of writing, would deeply appreciate.

Elliot Gould, on the other hand, does an absolutely fantastic job. He has the remarkable ability to make each and every character seem as if they are leaping right off the page. His portrayal brings the story to life in a way that is both captivating and engaging.

It's as if Gould has a special connection with the characters, allowing him to bring out their true essence and make them feel real to the audience.

This combination of the iconic Marlowe archetype, the poetic soliloquies, and Gould's outstanding performance makes for a truly unforgettable experience.

It was an excellent old time filled with hardcore detective sleuthing. Marlowe, the protagonist, is a character who is sarcastic, cynical, and exceptionally clever. His sharp wit and keen intellect make him a captivating figure as he delves into the mysteries at hand.

I am so glad that I finally got around to reading this classic. It has truly lived up to its reputation and has left me eagerly looking forward to the rest of the series. The story is engaging, the characters are well-developed, and the writing is top-notch.

Ray Porter, the narrator, was absolute perfection. His voice brought the story and the characters to life in the most vivid way. His intonations, pacing, and accents added an extra layer of depth and authenticity to the audiobook. Listening to him was a pleasure and enhanced my overall reading experience.

This isn't really a comprehensive review but rather a brief expression of my appreciation for a book that I read many decades ago. I have a suspicion that before Chandler and others of his kind emerged, crime fiction was much less intense and gritty. It also appears to have been a forerunner to some outstanding contemporary crime dramas. Could it be that shows like The Sopranos, The Wire, and numerous others are indebted to books like this for their complex plotting, vivid language, stylized writing, and that classic noir atmosphere?

Over time, it seems that I have merged the book with the movie in my mind. I remember enjoying both, but now I can't clearly distinguish their individual elements. Certainly, Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall were wonderful together, given the real-life chemistry they shared. Which brings to my mind - have you ever wished for a postcursor? By that, I mean what might have been, but wasn't, a predecessor to something observed retrospectively. In this case, I'm referring to the relatively recent trend of combining couples' names - like Brangelina, Benifer, or, when they were still together, TomKat. If the writers of the past had caught onto the same idea, Bogey and Bacall could have been called HumpBac. Similarly, Liz Taylor and Richard Burton might have been known to all of us as Lizard. And Lucille Ball and Desi Arnaz could have been Ballsi. (Sorry. Some might think that this anachronistic wordplay was the sole purpose of this post, but I truly did like this book, The, uh…, The Big Sleep.)

OMG, how could I have missed out on Raymond Chandler’s work for such a long time? From the very first sentence, I was completely hooked. The plot of "The Big Sleep" is quite good, but what really makes it excel is in its characters and atmosphere.

Philip Marlowe is the kind of guy you would want to have on your side if there is something not quite above-board happening in your life. He is not the type of guy you would want to date, but definitely a guy who you hope you can afford when you need his skills.

I absolutely adored the dialog. Chandler had a real talent in this department. Marlowe is pitch perfect, allowing the reader to assess how much he knows and frustrating those that he is questioning or not answering. Working both sides of the law, being friends with lawyers and criminals alike, all of whom see him as a straight-shooter, he tries to be a decent guy. However, whether he is decent or not, he’ll let something slide if it promises to complicate his life too much.

It is easy to see how works like "The Big Sleep" have influenced modern crime fiction. The almost-burnt-out investigator who is world weary and cynical has become a pretty standard trope. Although the more interesting authors manage to find a way to give this stereotype a new spin. The omnipresent rain, which turns the whole investigation into an endurance test. The moral ambiguity of "bad guys" who are actually quite likeable and "good guys" who are rather despicable. For me, it was a wonderful introduction to the hard-boiled genre and a really good read besides.

When I pick up a Raymond Chandler novel, I anticipate encountering lines like:

"I was as empty of life as a scarecrow's pockets."

or "He was a very small man, not much more than five foot three and would hardly weigh as much as a butcher's thumb."

Then, as I read, "I got down there about nine, under a high hard October moon that lost itself in the top layers of a beach fog", and I come to realize just how fine and true a writer he was.

While delving into The Big Sleep, I was struck by a similarity between Raymond Chandler and the gypsy Flamenco guitarist, Manitas de Plata. Flamenco purists faulted Manitas de Plata for not conforming to the strictures of traditional flamenco. However, the flaw in that thinking is that Manitas de Plata didn't much care about the rules. He was focused on expressing the fire within his soul, and especially in his early recordings, he did precisely that.

One of the critiques leveled at The Big Sleep is the presence of an unexplained/unsolved murder. When director Howard Hawks was filming The Big Sleep, he allegedly asked Chandler who killed the chauffeur? Chandler responded that he didn't know, and the implication was that he didn't really care. Raymond Chandler didn't pen mysteries in the traditional sense. By the conclusion of most mysteries, all the loose ends must be neatly tied up. Chandler wrote detective/crime novels, and there may be loose ends, just as in real life where not all crimes are solved. Chandler was intrigued by people and atmosphere. Any queries regarding the solutions to mysteries were of secondary importance to him.

I last read The Big Sleep when I was in my early 20's - a time that seems much further in the past than I care to admit. I had a great liking for the book then, and over the years, it has not lost any of its allure. I derived even more enjoyment from this reading, perhaps because I consider myself a better reader now than I was then. At least, I sincerely hope so.

For someone who claims to have a general love for Noir, I find it quite humorous that I had never delved into the works of Chandler. Now that I have read one of his masterpieces, I can firmly attest to his status as a bona fide master.

Or perhaps, he is the original master, the one who defined the genre, the mean man of the mean streets himself.

Okay, so here's the thing. I simply fell in love with it. It was not only an easy read, filled with charming language, manly man stuff, and dangerous broads, but it also boasted a classy, twisty plot that was full of intrigue and bruises.

Does it sound like the typical Noir genre? Through and through? Well, it's never entirely about the subject matter. It's all about the execution. It's a murder. Or perhaps multiple murders.

It's how the author skillfully leads us to our demise that truly matters, don't you see?

I am absolutely thrilled. It was so incredibly good. I feel as if I have been murdered in the most delicious way.