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A review by kahn_johnson
Farewell, My Lovely by Raymond Chandler
2.0
It's an accepted hazard of reading certain books from a certain era — they come equipped with views and language of the time that, thankfully, most of us no longer share and are fully aware just how outdated and distasteful they are.
In the case of authors such as Ian Flemming, I remain unconvinced that either he or Bond are inherently misogynist even if the views and language are clearly sexist.
With with Chandler and Marlowe, however, I think suggesting one (and thus the other) have racist leanings is not that much of a stretch.
Yes, I know it was a different time and all that, but the casual references to gardening staff that has no narrative relevance suggest Chandler just wanted to put down an ethnic group.
It's the same with his references to black characters.
While the attempt at vernacular dialogue is at best ham-fisted, the descriptive terminology is borderline offensive even for 1940.
All of which is a massive shame, because it drags down the tone of an otherwise barely average book.
My memory, such as it is (ad yes, I could look this up, but I'm very busy you know) is that I really enjoyed the debut Marlowe outing, finding it gritty and realistic.
What we have here, however, is a book not even the author was enjoying.
There are chapters that grip, drive the story on, have you on the edge of your seat.
But there are far too many that have you slumped back again, skim reading just to get to the good stuff again.
The first half of the book, racism aside, was entertaining enough, which is why when the sludge needed wading through I pushed on as I was almost half way through. I'd invested enough to want to know how the story actually played out.
The story itself is quite simple - a hoodlum is looking for his lost love, and Marlowe decides to try and find her.
In and of itself, fine. But then Chandler decides we need twists and subplots to pad the whole thing out, none of which play out with any real sense of conviction.
Overall, the whole book feels rushed, ill-planned, and like someone kept handing it back saying it needed something else.
If book three heads down the same road, it'll be time to shut the door on this particular private eye.
In the case of authors such as Ian Flemming, I remain unconvinced that either he or Bond are inherently misogynist even if the views and language are clearly sexist.
With with Chandler and Marlowe, however, I think suggesting one (and thus the other) have racist leanings is not that much of a stretch.
Yes, I know it was a different time and all that, but the casual references to gardening staff that has no narrative relevance suggest Chandler just wanted to put down an ethnic group.
It's the same with his references to black characters.
While the attempt at vernacular dialogue is at best ham-fisted, the descriptive terminology is borderline offensive even for 1940.
All of which is a massive shame, because it drags down the tone of an otherwise barely average book.
My memory, such as it is (ad yes, I could look this up, but I'm very busy you know) is that I really enjoyed the debut Marlowe outing, finding it gritty and realistic.
What we have here, however, is a book not even the author was enjoying.
There are chapters that grip, drive the story on, have you on the edge of your seat.
But there are far too many that have you slumped back again, skim reading just to get to the good stuff again.
The first half of the book, racism aside, was entertaining enough, which is why when the sludge needed wading through I pushed on as I was almost half way through. I'd invested enough to want to know how the story actually played out.
The story itself is quite simple - a hoodlum is looking for his lost love, and Marlowe decides to try and find her.
In and of itself, fine. But then Chandler decides we need twists and subplots to pad the whole thing out, none of which play out with any real sense of conviction.
Overall, the whole book feels rushed, ill-planned, and like someone kept handing it back saying it needed something else.
If book three heads down the same road, it'll be time to shut the door on this particular private eye.