This is one of those books that was so original it now seems an imitative. That is, fifty years ago it created a genre, and now looks like a rather stale example of that genre. (A bit like this). The genre: hard-boiled detective, ice-cold blonde, straight-up bourbon, etc. Here’s the opening:
It was about eleven o’clock in the morning, mid October, with the sun not shining and a look of hard wet rain in the clearness of the foothillsI was wearing my powder-blue suit, with dark blue shirt, tie and display handkerchief, black brogues, black wool socks with dark blue clocks on them. I was neat, clean, shaved and sober, and I didn’t care who knew it.
BOOM! it’s a murder mystery, but the plot is not really here nor there, so let’s not bother with it. Chandler didn’t: a chauffeur gets murdered at the beginning, and it’s not clear who did it; and when the movie came to be made, Chandler admitted he didn’t know himself who the culprit was. That’s not the point. The point is drinking whiskey and being cool. There’s lots of men facing off. Here is what he says to one man pointing a gun at him:
“Such a lot of guns around town and so few brains. You’re the second guy I’ve met within hours who seems to think a gat in the hand means a world by the tail”
Or here are some orchids:
The plants filled the place, a forest of them, with nasty meaty leaves and stalks like the newly washed fingers of dead men.
Chandler had an interesting life, and only got round to this, his first and most famous novel when he is 51. This gives me hope for my own life. Before that he did all sorts, military, corporate work. From the latter “he was dismissed for a combination of factors, including heavy drinking, depression, missed work, and general womanizing.” I mean, if you have to get fired, that is #goals way to get fired.