Erik's Reviews > Trouble Is My Business

To quote the man himself, Raymond Chandler’s stories are like alcohol, which is like love. The first kiss is magic, the second intimate, the third routine. After that you take the girl’s clothes off.

I’ve read enough that I’ve reached a point where reading Raymond Chandler is like returning to a neighborhood bar you’ve haunted every Friday for more years than is worth counting.

You don’t expect magic. You don’t expect excitement or novelty. In fact, it is the familiarity and routine that draw you back. All the little details - the stain on the bar that has taken up permanent residence, say, or the regular who sits at the end of the bar and drinks exactly one and a half beers before leaving - imbue the place with a personal character, such that your mind has begun to consider it an actual friend.

Chandler’s style, which I once found sharp and exciting, is now old hat, and his plot structures are similar enough to please even the most tyrannical home-owner’s association. It’s all a bit like owning ten slightly different copies of a treasure map that lead to the same treasure.

But then, I don’t expect magic or novelty or excitement. The pleasure of reading is still there. It’s just different. The small changes in style and plot become tremendously exciting. Like if that beer-and-a-half regular brought a lady friend one evening. A new patron wouldn’t even notice it. Wouldn’t know why it mattered. But us regulars would understand its significance.

And Chandler’s Philip Marlowe remains largely unparalleled, mostly because so many imitation anti-heroes miss the point. It’s not his toughness, his perception, or his sarcastic wit that make the character. It’s the rare - but consistent - acts of kindness. Despite all the venality and vice of the world, he manages to keep one hand - one pinky, even - above the muck.