"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."
Probably some of the most philosophical ontological words ever written in Pulp literature. That's what I like about Raymond Chandler, as opposed to Dashiell Hammett. Chandler is a philosopher, connoisseur, while Hammett is just a bare craftsman. Marlowe is refined in his own way, thinks about life, the meaning of it all, his place in the universe. Spade is a lowlife brute, who couldn't tell Plato from a platoon.
This time around I read the written book, as opposed to the last review when I read the audiobook while commuting to work and much of the finesse was lost in the jungle and jumble and rumble of public transportation. Luckily, since the Pandemic, I am 100% remote and no more commuting for me. I think I'd like to keep it that way permanently. It is just too much of a wasted time, even though it gets me out of the house. As a Project/Engagement Manager I found out I can be just as successful without ever meeting the clients in person, and sometimes not even seeing them on video. Voice is enough. Fuck the extroverts. Let them crawl up their extroverted rectums.
Anyway, this is still one of my favorite books. Not just detective, pulp or noir books, but books in general, in any category. One day I'd like to make my own version in film. I love Bogart, but his version has plot that leaves a lot of out, especially towards the ending. I'd be the script writer, director, producer, editor and casting. I know exactly how I want it. It will be rated M for mature. No family movie, this one.
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