Blog

Tag: literature

  • September 14th, 2015 12:39am

    Nothing with you in it stinks for me, Miss Gonzales.“

    She stood away from the door and waved me in. "We will have a drink,” she said. “The God-damnest drink we will have. I adore flattery, however dishonest.”

    I went in. A gun in the kidney wouldn’t have surprised me a bit. She stood so that I had to practically push her mammaries out of the way to get through the door. She smelled the way the Taj Mahal looks by moonlight.

    —

    The Little Sister by

    Raymond Chandler.

  • August 26th, 2015 8:05pm

    Then I sat there holding the neck of the cool bottle and wondering how it would feel to be a homicide dick and find bodies lying around and not mind at all, not having to sneak out wiping doorknobs, not having to ponder how much I could tell without hurting a client and how little I could tell without too badly hurting myself. I decided I wouldn’t like it.

    — The High Window by Raymond Chandler.

  • August 17th, 2015 11:09pm

    We said goodbye. I watched the cab out of sight. I went back up the steps and into the bedroom and pulled the bed to pieces and remade it. There was a long dark hair on one of the pillows. There was a huge lump of lead at the pit of my stomach. 

    The French have a phrase for it. The bastards have a phrase for everything and they are always right. 

    To say goodbye is to die a little.

    — The Long Goodbye by Raymond Chandler.

  • August 11th, 2015 12:54pm

    What did it matter where you lay once you were dead? In a dirty sump or in a marble tower on top of a high hill? You were dead, you were sleeping the big sleep, you were not bothered by things like that. Oil and water were the same as wind and air to you. You just slept the big sleep, not caring about the nastiness of how you died or where you fell.

    — Raymond Chandler, The Big Sleep
    (via gwydderig)

  • August 4th, 2015 3:01pm

    I don’t see what there is to be so cagey about,“ she snapped. "And I don’t like your manners.”

    “I’m not crazy about yours,” I said. “I didn’t ask to see you. You sent for me. I don’t mind your ritzing me or drinking your lunch out of a Scotch bottle. I don’t mind your showing me your legs. They’re very swell legs and it’s a pleasure to make their acquaintance. I don’t mind if you don’t like my manners. They’re pretty bad. I grieve over them during the long winter evenings. But don’t waste your time trying to cross-examine me.

    — The Big Sleep by Raymond Chandler.