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A murder case that seems clear from the beginning, and a babysitting job for a sort of talentless Hemingway; two very different situations in which Marlowe finds himself, with only one thing in common: a place, Idle Valley, a spot for filthy rich people.
As the story progresses, the two situations intertwine, and before the circle closes, there's room for much melancholy, desolation, crowded loneliness, boredom for the wealthy, death, hard-boiled gangsters & cops, couple relationships in all their sadness, all seasoned with Marlowe's usual memorable caustic remarks.
What steals the scene from the well-constructed detective plot is the depressingZZA (... forgive me, teacher P.! forgive me!) that oozes to the forefront like grease among gears: everything is emptied of value by human baseness, and marriages, justice, law appear to be nothing more than hypocritical screens to minimize the stench of shit.
It's not just form, it's not just the "mandatory" backdrop for the feats of a tough and detached detective, it's a twilight desolation that has a certain force. Then, in this case, Marlowe is quite "sentimental," more than usual, and that bit of ground under his feet, just inches from the shit, is provided to the reader precisely by his (the detective's) steadfast adherence to the few values he possesses, despite everything and everyone.
But this too is an illusion, that "sentimental" mentioned above exists only in this type of book. Elsewhere, a man without a price tag, who stubbornly continues to be so beyond a certain limit, doesn't become "sentimental," he immediately comes across as someone who rhymes with Orion.
Just like that, who knows why humans persist in seeking certainty in values and institutions that they themselves have created, and which they believe to be absolute; they should rather accept having to navigate a magma of infinite uncertainty.
Flame, Flame, hold your horses, it's just a book by Chandler, not a treatise on philosophy, is it the right time to start reflecting on the major systems? In writing too, which you couldn't even afford.
You're right Onofrio, as always.
The dialogues, Marlowe's reflections, and the writing style are, for me, the best part to enjoy in Chandler's novels; but here there's more, there's that descriptive force of a depressing humanity, from which only for a brief moment a mirage of light steals the scene: a dream blonde, with gold hair and eyes like the sea, but who then becomes as dark as the night.
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