Raymond Chandler
Il Grande Sonno

If I smoked, now that the book is closed and I feel satisfied from the good read, I would gladly incinerate a cigarette with slow expert drags: held for a long time, before forming insubstantial grayish patterns up to the ceiling. After sex they say it's the ultimate, but honestly, I've never felt the need on those occasions. But right now, with my feet on the stove and feeling relaxed, it would be just right. A cigarette. The thing is, if I started right now, I'd cough like a fool and the whole noir atmosphere that's still fresh in my memory would go to the dogs. And it would be a shame because what I've just finished is a respectable noir.

I'll give myself two weeks. After this period, the convoluted plot I've just unraveled with the last chapter, now laid out without wrinkles in my head, will be lost: because with all those characters, connections, and twists, forgetting just one means losing the overall vision and the squaring of the circle. Fortunately, the tangled incident of names and murders is nothing but a palliative. An excuse contrived by the author to write.

And it's a way of writing that is not only convincing but also profoundly satisfying. Especially in the dialogues; capable of having that right mix of sarcasm, realism, and brilliance without being repetitive in structure. If I were an actor, I'd be eager to play the fictional detective Marlowe who always knows what to say, who never makes mistakes. A bit like Sherlock Holmes. Only, I'd break the Englishman's arm, just on a whim, while I'd give Marlowe a pat on the back to befriend him and wreck my stomach with malt, even buying him the first round. He has the right timing, the quick wit, but he's not arrogant. Not even impulsive because he has the mind of a chess player and is already five moves ahead while maneuvering his life on the dangerous streets of Los Angeles. All the clichés of the great noir are there, and in hindsight, the reason is probably that this post-war book is a fat pillar in its genre. Alluring and dangerous dark ladies, bloody and brave nights, twists and turns, and the hero amidst whiskey and a cigarette untangling the mess and piecing together the puzzle. Damn, I'd even want one right now, while writing, a cigarette. A sentence and then a nice puff.

Inspector Marlowe with his calculated and affable demeanor conquers and dominates everyone. One after another, they fall at his feet like ivory domino tiles. Then the beauty in his arms. She lasciviously waits and just after fleetingly savoring his lips, is left there, trembling and unsatisfied, watching him disappear into the mist. His hat covered by the smoke of burnt tobacco, while the trench coat with the turned-up collar progressively fades into the dark gray of a newly blossomed night.

It’s the whole that makes it, in my eyes, well, let's call it a masterpiece. Landscape descriptions, characterizations, and dialogues are so well rendered that this book almost seems to be seen while flipping through the pages.

A formidable pen that of Raymond Chandler. If you don't know it, I recommend it.