Raymond Chandler's crisp, laconic, sharp, caustic, dazzlingly evocative writing is always good for what ails me. Especially when what ails me is a mild case of summertime SAD (Seasonal Affective Disorder) and its accompanying discomfort in my own skin.
I try to limit myself to one Raymond Chandler book a year so that there is always enough time between my reading of any single book to make it feel fresh again with each reread. So far, that's been working pretty well.
In Farewell, My Lovely, private investigator Philip Marlowe accidentally encounters an ex-con named Moose Malloy. Moose is fresh out of prison and single-mindedly hunting for the love of his life, a singer named Velma. He corrals Marlowe into helping him look for her, then accidentally commits a murder while trying to get information out of a black saloonkeeper. Marlowe has to report the murder to the cops, but this is early 1940s California, and nobody really cares about an accidental murder of a black man who wasn't rich or famous or important in anyway. Marlowe is told to forget about it, and the cops will track down Moose in their own good time. The injustice bothers him, and he makes a lot of snide remarks about it to various authorities, to no real avail.
But Marlowe keeps getting sucked back into Moose's quest to find Velma. Sometimes things happen to him that seem unconnected to Moose, like getting hit on the head and waking up to discover a murder, or getting hit on the head and waking up in a private hospital for recovering drug addicts. But he starts to realize everything is all connected, eventually. It feels for quite a while like a meandering spiral of a story, but that spiral is getting pulled tighter and tighter and tighter like a watch spring the whole time.
Particularly Good Bits:
I didn't say anything. I lit my pipe again. It makes you look thoughtful when you are not thinking (p. 91).
Aster Drive had a long smooth curve there and the houses on the inland side were just nice houses, but on the canyon side they were great silent estates, with twelve foot walls and wrought-iron gates and ornamental hedges; and inside, if you could get inside, a special brand of sunshine, very quiet, put up in noise-proof containers just for the upper classes (p. 119-120).
If This was a Movie, I Would Rate It: PG-16 for violence, including not-overly-detailed descriptions of some gory murders, as well as innuendo (mainly in dialog) here and there, some bad language, and the aforementioned casual racism and some racial slurs common in the era. This is hardboiled detective fiction from the 1940s, so it's not actually smutty, but most of the characters Marlowe encounters are not nice people.
