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

P is for Pulp #62

Dime Mystery
(August, 1949)


Scott Is NOT A Professional said...

The black cat is the touch that makes it. Black cats get a bad rap. There's a black cat who always hangs out around my local Starbucks. Everyone loves him and pets him - he's the sweetest pussy imaginable.

As far as old-school pulp fiction/noir goes, there are quite a few excellent compilations of that stuff available. It's good stuff. The only Jim Thompson or Patricia Highsmith or Cornell Woolrich I own is in multi-author collections like that.

swac said...

I wonder if that's Vincent Price's cat?