Posts Tagged ‘Raymond Chandler’
December 2, 2013 | by Alexander Aciman
A coarse, heavy rain pattered against the side of my cap, echoing like the sound of a rhythmic hailstorm pelting the skulls of sinners. The fumes from a black bog forming around the storm drain, not too subtle and very close behind us, obscured everything. I must have had a bewildered sort of look on my face, which my partner—standing just a few feet in front of me—mistook for fear. An instant later he was on his way over, cigarette floating right above his lip like a perfumed bird working the counter at Macy’s, elbows propped up against the etched glass surface.
The job had an attractive ticket, more than twice what we had ever made and with the promise of a nice bonus if we managed to expedite it. I asked Virgil if it would be possible to get into the municipal building at all. He didn’t answer my question and I didn’t press it; soon enough I would have it figured out on my own. Virgil was the only person to have ever made his way past the two secretaries guarding the county clerk’s files, and at the time he must have been new to the job and under the influence of a particular sort of luck that on occasion comes to the assistance of an ill-equipped dick.
October 28, 2013 | by Sadie Stein
Whom do you read for pleasure?
Anthony Powell. Ronald Knox, both for pleasure and moral edification. Erle Stanley Gardner.
And Raymond Chandler!
No. I’m bored by all those slugs of whiskey. I don’t care for all the violence either.
But isn’t there a lot of violence in Gardner?
Not of the extraneous lubricious sort you find in other American crime writers.
What do you think of other American writers, of Scott Fitzgerald or William Faulkner, for example?
I enjoyed the first part of Tender Is the Night. I find Faulkner intolerably bad.
—Evelyn Waugh, the Art of Fiction No. 30
October 23, 2013 | by Robert Moor
When I first started working at Kings County Distillery, in the summer of 2010, I was delighted to find the job provided ample time to read. Whiskey making has its own peculiar rhythm. Each batch begins in a flurry, as one juggles a series of tasks like a line cook, but ends in a hush, with little to do but watch the languorous drip of the stills.
This was in the wobbly-legged days of the company’s infancy, before we moved into the grand old brick paymaster building in the Brooklyn Navy Yards. Back then we were based out of a studio space on Meadow Street with wooden floors and five-gallon steel pot stills that had to be emptied, scaldingly, by hand. (This, as our former downstairs neighbors can attest, would prove an unfortunate combination of circumstances.) During that first summer, we worked singly, in nine-hour shifts, so there was a lot of alone time. So, unless one wanted to lose one’s goddamn mind in that little room, one read. Read More »
October 21, 2013 | by Sadie Stein
- Citing health concerns, Alice Munro says she will not travel to Sweden to accept her Nobel in person.
- “For the first time I felt myself in the presence of a talent greater than my own.” The long, strange friendship of Kingsley Amis and Philip Larkin.
- “People are messes, every one of us.” Editor Giancarlo DiTrapano talks Tyrant.
- For its sixtieth anniversary, the Crime Writers’ Association has asked its six hundred writer-members to choose the best crime novel of all time. Agatha Christie, Arthur Conan Doyle, and Raymond Chandler fight it out.
- Speaking of hot competition, the ten most dramatic deaths in fiction.
July 23, 2013 | by Sadie Stein
August 24, 2012 | by Sadie Stein