Raymond Chandler
The Long Goodbye

Some stories feel like old songs drifting in from outside. You don’t remember when you first heard them, but they stir something - a familiarity that isn’t comfort. The Long Goodbye is one of those stories. It’s not just about crime or justice; it’s about friendship, loyalty, and the slow erosion of illusions. Set in a Los Angeles polluted by decay, the novel aches with something deeply human: the longing to believe in someone, and the pain of realising you were wrong.

Philip Marlowe is 42 now - older, quieter, a little more bruised by life. When he meets Terry Lennox, a charming, white-haired man with a scarred face (and soul) and perfect manners, something like camaraderie blooms. Marlowe helps him without asking too many questions, because that's the way men do “friendship”. When Terry flees to Mexico after the apparent murder of his wife, Marlowe covers for him, not out of foolishness, but out of something rarer: the unwillingness to give up on decency.

While the Lennox affair simmers in the background, another story unfolds: a famous, hard-drinking writer has gone missing, and Marlowe is pulled into the mess of Roger Wade’s life, and marriage. These two plot lines spiral around each other, seemingly unrelated, until the book tightens its grip and reveals how deeply they're entwined. What seems loose and meandering is, in truth, deliberate - like jazz.

If the plot sometimes strains credulity, it hardly matters. The emotional core is devastating. Because what Marlowe discovers isn’t just who killed whom: it’s who lied, and why. And that hurts more. Terry Lennox’s betrayal isn’t just personal; it’s existential. For a man like Marlowe, built on a foundation of quiet honour, that kind of disappointment shakes everything.

Chandler did something unusual here. Most writers cast themselves as their heroes. Chandler split himself between the drunken, weak brilliance of Roger Wade and the damaged elegance of Terry Lennox. One is a self-loathing writer drowning in booze and bitterness. The other, a charming ghost of wartime trauma and unspoken despair. Together, they make a portrait of a man lost between two identities: the writer who hates himself, and the man who can’t quite survive the past and the world he's in.

The Long Goodbye is not just a detective novel, it's a funeral lament. It is Chandler’s most intimate work, his most accomplished, and also—fittingly—his last. The case is solved, of course, but what remains is not justice. It is the weight of farewell, the long echo of a betrayed trust. Some goodbyes unfold without fanfare, slowly unwinding across pages and years