--- In FairfieldLife@yahoogroups.com, "Jason" <jedi_spock@...> wrote: > > > > This shit is as bad as Robin's shit. Dude post it in some > other forum and not here.
Chandler, in three words, 'pulp fiction writer'. Robin in one, 'enigma'. > > > --- turquoiseb <no_reply@> wrote: > > > > Even more: > > > > The man in the powder-blue suit which wasn't powder-blue > > under the lights of the Club Bolivar was tall, with wide- > > set gray eyes, a thin nose, a jaw of stone. He had a rather > > sensitive mouth His hair was crisp and black, ever so > > faintly touched with gray, as by an almost diffident hand. > > His clothes fitted him as though they had a soul of their > > own, not just a doubtful past. His name happened to be Mallory. > > > > He's doing his next week's drinking too soon. > > > > I don't like drunks in the first place and in the second > > place I don't like them getting drunk in here, and in the > > third place, I don't like them in the first place. > > > > The dark guy took a week to fall down. He stumbled, caught > > himself, waved one arm, stumbled again. His hat fell off, > > and then he hit the floor with his face. After he hit it > > he might have been poured concrete for all the fuss he > > made. > > > > The drunk slid down off the stool and scooped his dimes > > into a pocket and slid towards the door. He turned sideways, > > holding the gun across his body. I didn't have a gun. I > > hadn't thought I needed one to buy a glass of beer. > > > > The door swung shut. I started to rush it from long > > practice in doing the wrong thing. In this case it didn't > > matter. The car outside let out a roar and when I got onto > > the sidewalk it was flicking a red smear of tail-light > > around the nearby corner. I got its license number the > > way I got my first million. > > > > He took his felt hat off and tousled up his ratty blond > > hair and leaned his head on his hands. He had a long mean > > horse face. He got a handkerchief out and mopped it, and > > the back of his neck and the back of his hands. He got > > a comb out and combed his hair he looked worse with > > it combed and put his hat back on. > > > > She smoothed her hair with that quick gesture, like a > > bird preening itself. Ten thousand years of practice > > behind it. > > > > We were almost at my door. I jammed the key in and shook > > the lock around and heaved the door inward. I reached in > > far enough to switch lights on. She went in past me like > > a wave. Sandalwood floated on the air, very faint. > > > > I shut the door, threw my hat into a chair and watched > > her stroll over to a card table on which I had a chess > > problem set out that I couldn't solve. Once inside, with > > the door locked, her panic had left her. "So you're a > > chess player," she said, in that guarded tone, as if she > > had come to look at my etchings. I wished she had. > > > > Her eyes were set like rivets now and had the same amount of expression. > > > > I sipped my drink. I like an effect as well as the next > > guy. Her eyes ate me. > > > > "He's really dead?" she whispered, "Really?" > > "He's dead," I said. "Dead, dead, dead. Lady, he's dead." > > Her face fell apart like a bride's piecrust. Her mouth > > wasn't large, but I could have got my fist into it at > > that moment. In the silence the elevator stopped at my > > floor. > > "Scream," I rapped, "and I'll give you two black eyes." > > It didn't sound nice, but it worked. It jarred her out > > of it. Her mouth shut like a trap. > > > > He came close to me and breathed in my face. "No mistakes, > > pal about this story of ours." His breath was bad. It > > would be. > > > > When I left the party across the street was still doing > > all that a party can do. I noticed the walls of the house > > were still standing. That seemed a pity. > > > > The hammer clicked back on Copernik's gun and I watched > > his big bony finger slide in farther around the trigger. > > The back of my neck was as wet as a dog's nose. > > > > Back and forth in front of them, strutting, trucking, > > preening herself like a magpie, arching her arms and her > > eyebrows, bending her fingers back until the carmine > > nails almost touched her arms, a metallic blonde swayed > > and went to town on the music. Her voice was a throaty > > screech, without melody, as false as her eyebrows and > > as sharp as her nails. > > > > He took out a leather keyholder and studied the lock of > > the door. It looked like it would listen to reason. > > > > A swarthy iron-gray Italian in a cutaway coat stood in > > front of the curtained door of the red brick funeral home, > > smoking a cigar and waiting for someone to die. > > > > She had a mud-colored face, stringy hair, gray cotton > > stockings everything a Bunker Hill landlady should have. > > She looked at Steve with the interested eye of a dead goldfish. > > > > The cigar was burning unevenly and it smelled as if someone > > had set fire to the doormat. > > > > In a moment the door opened again and Ellen Macintosh came > > in. Maybe you don't like tall girls with honey-colored hair > > and skin like the first strawberry peach the grocer sneaks > > out of the box for himself. If you don't, I feel sorry for you. > > > > Ellen lowered her long silky eyelashes at me and when she > > does that I go limp as a scrubwoman's back hair. > > > > The hotel was upstairs, the steps being covered in places > > with strips of decayed rubber matting to which were screwed > > irregular fragments of unpolished brass. The smell of the > > Chinese laundry ceased about halfway up the stairs and was > > replaced by a smell of kerosene, cigar butts, slept-in air > > and greasy paper bags. > > > > I rang the bell and waited. Presently a door opened down the > > hall and feet shuffled towards me without haste. A man > > appeared wearing frayed leather slippers and trousers of a > > nameless color, which had the two top buttons unlatched to > > permit more freedom to the suburbs of his extensive stomach. > > He also wore red suspenders, his shirt was darkened under > > the arms, and elsewhere, and his face badly needed a thorough > > laundering and trimming. > > > > The man who sat alone at the table was shaped like two eggs, > > a robin's egg, which was his head, on top of a hen's egg, > > which was his body. > > > > "You seem a right guy," Henry said. "What makes you always > > talk so funny?" "I cannot seem to change my speech, Henry. > > My father and mother were both severe purists in the New > > England tradition and the vernacular has never come naturally > > to my lips, even when I was in college." Henry made an > > attempt to digest this remark, but I could see that it > > lay somewhat heavily on his stomach. > > > > Henry put his empty glass down on the floor. It was the > > first time I had seen him put an empty glass down and > > leave it empty. > > > > Anna Halsey was about two hundred and forty pounds of > > middle-aged putty-faced woman in a black tailor-made > > suit. Her eyes were shiny black shoe-buttons, her cheeks > > were as soft as suet and about the same color. She was > > sitting behind a black desk that looked like Napolean's > > tomb and she was smoking a cigarette in a black holder > > that was not quite as long as a rolled umbrella. She > > said, "I need a man." > > > > The Arbogast I wanted was John D. Arbogast and he had > > an office on Sunset near Ivar. I called him up from a > > phone booth. The voice that answered was fat. It > > wheezed softly, like the voice of a man who had > > just won a pie-eating contest. > > > > I leaned down and buried my fingers in the bottomless > > fat of his neck. He had an artery in there someplace, > > probably, but I couldn't find it and he didn't need > > it anymore anyway. > > > > A doorman opened the door for me and I went in. The > > lobby was not quite as big as the Yankee Stadium. It > > was floored with a pale blue carpet with sponge rubber > > underneath. It was so soft it made me want to lie down > > and roll. I walked over to the desk and put an elbow on > > it and was stared at by a pale thin clerk with one of > > those mustaches that get stuck under your fingernail. > > He toyed with it and looked past my shoulder at an > > Ali Baba oil jar big enough to keep a tiger in. > > > > The elevator had a carpeted floor and mirrors and > > indirect lighting. It rose as softly as the mercury > > in a thermometer. > > > > She wore a street dress of pale green wool and a small > > cockeyed hat that hung on the side of her ear like a > > butterfly. Her eyes were wide-set and there was thinking > > room between them. Their color was lapis-lazuli blue and > > the color of her hair was dusky red, like a fire under > > control but still dangerous. She was too tall to be cute. > > She wore plenty of make-up in the right places and the > > cigarette she was poking at me had a built-on mouthpiece > > about three inches long. She didn't look hard, but she > > looked as if she had heard all the answers and remembered > > the ones she thought she might be able to use sometime. > > > > I remembered the half-bottle of Scotch I had left and > > went into executive session with it. The jarring of the > > telephone bell woke me. I had dozed off in the chair, > > which was a bad mistake, because I woke up with two flannel > > blankets in my mouth, a splitting headache, a bruise on > > the back of my head and another on my jaw, neither of them > > larger than a Yakima apple, but sore for all that. I felt > > terrible. I felt like an amputated leg. > > > > He opened the door, went out, shut it, and I sat there > > still holding the telephone, with my mouth open and nothing > > in it but my tongue and a bad taste on that. > > > > "Show the company in, Beef." I liked this voice. It was > > smooth, quiet, and you could have cut your name in it > > with a thirty-pound sledge and a cold chisel. > > > > At one o'clock in the morning, Carl, the night porter, > > turned down the last of the three table lamps in the main > > lobby of the Windemere Hotel. The blue carpet darkened a > > shade or two and the walls drew back into remoteness. > > The chairs filled with shadowy loungers. In the corners > > were memories like cobwebs. > > > > He got up with a curious litheness, all in one piece, > > without moving his clasped hands from the watch chain. > > At one moment he was leaning back relaxed and the next > > he was standing balanced on his feet, perfectly still, > > so that the movement of rising seemed to be a thing > > imperfectly perceived, an error of vision. He walked > > with small, polished shoes directly across the blue carpet > > and under the arch. The music was louder. It contained > > the hot, acid blare, the frenetic, jittering runs of a > > jam session. It was too loud. The red-haired girl sat > > there and stared silently at the fretted part of the > > big radio cabinet as though she could see the band with > > its fixed professional grin and the sweat running down > > its back. She was curled up with her feet under her on > > a davenport which seemed to contain most of the cushions > > in the room. She was tucked among them carefully, like > > a corsage in the florist's tissue paper. > > > > He walked slowly, like a man walking in a room where > > somebody is very sick. He reached the chair he had sat > > in before and lowered himself into it inch by inch. The > > girl slept on, motionless, in that curled-up looseness > > achieved by some women and all cats. > > > > > > --- In FairfieldLife@yahoogroups.com, turquoiseb <no_reply@> wrote: > > > > > > Sorry, I'm just rediscovering one of my favorite writers. > > > > > > "She gave me a smile I could feel in my hip pocket." > > > > > > In twelve words Chandler just nails it. He was good at that. > > > Here are a few more, for those who love words: > > > > > > "There are two kinds of truth: the truth that lights the > > > way and the truth that warms the heart. The first of these > > > is science, and the second is art. Neither is independent > > > of the other or more important than the other. Without art > > > science would be as useless as a pair of high forceps in > > > the hands of a plumber. Without science art would become > > > a crude mess of folklore and emotional quackery. The truth > > > of art keeps science from becoming inhuman, and the truth > > > of science keeps art from becoming ridiculous." > > > > > > "There was a desert wind blowing that night. It was one > > > of those hot dry Santa Anas that come down through the > > > mountain passes and curl your hair and make your nerves > > > jump and your skin itch. On nights like that every booze > > > party ends in a fight. Meek little wives feel the edge > > > of the carving knife and study their husbands' necks. > > > Anything can happen. You can even get a full glass of > > > beer at a cocktail lounge." > > > > > > "He snorted and hit me in the solar plexus. I bent over > > > and took hold of the room with both hands and spun it. > > > When I had it nicely spinning I gave it a full swing and > > > hit myself on the back of the head with the floor." > > > > > > "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 foothills. I was wearing my powder- > > > blue suit, with dark blue shirt, tie and display > > > handkerchief, black brogues, black wool socks with dark > > > little clocks on them. I was neat, clean, shaved and > > > sober, and I didn't care who knew it. I was everything > > > the well-dressed private detective ought to be. I was > > > calling on four million dollars." > > > > > > "Even on Central Avenue, not the quietest dressed street > > > in the world, he looked about as inconspicuous as a > > > tarantula on a slice of angel food." > > > > > > "It was a blonde. A blonde to make a bishop kick a hole > > > in a stained glass window." > > > > > > "We sneered at each other across the desk for a moment. > > > He sneered better than I did." > > > > > > "I needed a drink, I needed a lot of life insurance, I > > > needed a vacation, I needed a home in the country. What > > > I had was a coat, a hat and a gun. I put them on and > > > went out of the room." > > > > > > "I hung up. It was a step in the right direction, but it > > > didn't go far enough. I ought to have locked the door > > > and hid under the desk." > > > > > > "From 30 feet away she looked like a lot of class. From > > > 10 feet away she looked like something made up to be > > > seen from 30 feet away." > > > > > > "I think a man ought to get drunk at least twice a year > > > just on principle, so he won't let himself get snotty > > > about it." > > > > > > "She jerked away from me like a startled fawn might, if > > > I had a startled fawn and it jerked away from me." > > > > > > "On the dance floor half a dozen couples were throwing > > > themselves around with the reckless abandon of a night > > > watchman with arthritis." > > > > > > "'Tall, aren't you?' she said. > > > 'I didn't mean to be.' > > > Her eyes rounded. She was puzzled. She was thinking. I > > > could see, even on that short acquaintance, that > > > thinking was always going to be a bother to her." > > > > > > "The minutes went by on toptoe, with their fingers to > > > their lips." > > > > > > "I'm an occasional drinker, the kind of guy who goes out > > > for a beer and wakes up in Singapore with a full beard." > > > > > > "The big foreign car drove itself, but I held the wheel > > > for the sake of appearances." > > > > > > "The girl gave him a look which ought to have stuck at > > > least four inches out of his back." > > > > > > "She lowered her lashes until they almost cuddled her > > > cheeks and slowly raised them again, like a theatre > > > curtain. I was to get to know that trick. That was > > > supposed to make me roll over on my back with all > > > four paws in the air." > > > > > > "Neither of the two people in the room paid any attention > > > to the way I came in, although only one of them was dead." > > > > > > "The faster I write the better my output. If I'm going slow, > > > I'm in trouble. It means I'm pushing the words instead of > > > being pulled by them." > > > > > >
