Although I would hardly have been able to articulate the thought at the time, what I found most attractive in Chandler’s work was the sumptuousness of the prose style. Even when the streets that Marlowe was obliged to go down were the meanest, the language in which they were described was rich in metaphor, at once sensuous and crisp, and marvellously redolent of mid-century California, a place and a time we all thought we were familiar with from the movies.
Novels remind us that the hard questions matter, they always have, and that we can’t ignore them just because we’re comfortable, well-fed, sheltered, and secure. Maybe those same comforts, which give us time and leisure enough to read novels in the first place, are the very reason why we need them so badly. A great novel is always felt as a kind of gift, and here’s the strange thing: these gifts are heartbreaks we wouldn’t suffer, tears we wouldn’t shed, agonies we wouldn’t undergo, if we simply left the books alone and did something else with our time.
Dedicated to David G. Hallman @authordhallman the author of
"Of all the great ‘novelistic’ television shows we’ve seen over the last fifteen years, it’s interesting that only one—HBO’s current breakout hit, True Detective—was created by a novelist.” — Brian Ted Jones
Ernest with Antonio Ordonez by http://menandbulls.tumblr.com/
The film adaptation of Thomas Pynchon’s Inherent Vice finally has a release date.
Book sculpture by Malena Valcarcel
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