The Explanation
(for those who require one)

And, of course, that is what all of this is -- all of this: the one song, ever changing, ever reincarnated, that speaks somehow from and to and for that which is ineffable within us and without us, that is both prayer and deliverance, folly and wisdom, that inspires us to dance or smile or simply to go on, senselessly, incomprehensibly, beatifically, in the face of mortality and the truth that our lives are more ill-writ, ill-rhymed and fleeting than any song, except perhaps those songs -- that song, endlesly reincarnated -- born of that truth, be it the moon and June of that truth, or the wordless blue moan, or the rotgut or the elegant poetry of it. That nameless black-hulled ship of Ulysses, that long black train, that Terraplane, that mystery train, that Rocket '88', that Buick 6 -- same journey, same miracle, same end and endlessness."
-- Nick Tosches, Where Dead Voices Gather

The Art of Crime Fiction #2

The Little Sister
(by Raymond Chandler)
(Pocket Book; 1949)


Bob Keser said...

It's definitely advisable to check the corpse's wig (I know I always do). Especially when the victim seems to be an over-the-hill Bay City Roller.

Tom Sutpen said...

And so over-the-hill that he needs to have it stamped inside his rug so he doesn't forget which group he's in.

Boy, that Chandler could sure dream 'em up, couldn't he.

Rob said...

Chandler had a knack for quirky situations, especially considering the times in which he wrote. Perverted bibliophiles, dykes and doubloons - boy oh boy, LA was a kinky place.