Farewell, My Lovely

Intoxicating Prose and Barb-Encrusted Wisecracks

Farewell, My Lovely by Raymond Chandler is the second full-length Philip Marlowe novel.

Long on style, atmosphere and wisecracks, but short on plot. Yet, with Marlowe’s commentary, you won’t object too much.

Synopsis

Whilst trying to find a missing husband, Philip Marlowe stumbles across a big man…

Not more than six feet five inches tall and not wider than a beer truck.

Fresh out of jail, Moose Molloy is looking for his fiancé, Velma Valento. Marlowe, who has no business in the search but nothing better to do, sets out to find the missing Velma. As he moves from restaurant to smoke-filled bar, it becomes clear that searching for Velma is something the police, a ring of jewel thieves, a crooked fortune teller and possibly Velma herself, would far rather he didn’t do.

Review

Raymond Chandler’s story drags you along like an explosive, high-octane movie. It will haul you through the warren that is Los Angeles, from its hot dirty streets and seedy bars to the elevated coolness of its luxury hillside mansions. You need to pay close attention to PI Marlowe’s hunches, or you will get lost in the tangled, bewildering plot. He will leave you wondering who you can trust.

The storyline isn’t what is important in Chandler’s novels; the beauty is his prose. The characterisation, sense of pace and Marlowe’s caustic wisecracks make Chandler’s stories flow.

The eighty-five cent dinner tasted like a discarded mailbag and was served to me by a waiter who looked as if he would slug me for a quarter, cut my throat for six bits and bury me at sea in a barrel of concrete for a dollar and a half, plus sales tax.

Chandler wrote Farewell, My Lovely in the 1930s, so you need to ride the occasional racial slur, but for cinematic pace, atmosphere and dialogue, there is little to match it.

Excerpt

‘Kind of take your goddamned mitt off my shirt,’ the big man said.

The bouncer frowned. He was not used to being talked to like that. He took his hand off the shirt and doubled it into a fist about the size and colour of a large eggplant. He had his job, his reputation for toughness, his public esteem to consider. He considered them for a second then made a mistake. He swung the fist very hard and short with a sudden outward jerk of the elbow and hit the big man on the side of the jaw. A soft sigh went around the room.

It was a good punch. The shoulder dropped and the body swung behind it. There was a lot of weight in that punch and the man who landed it had had plenty of practice. The big man didn’t move his head more than an inch. He didn’t try to block the punch. He took it, shook himself lightly, made a quiet sound in his throat and took hold of the bouncer by the throat.

The bouncer tried to knee him in the groin. The big man turned him in the air and slid his gaudy shoes apart on the scaly linoleum that covered the floor. He bent the bouncer backwards and shifted his right hand to the bouncer’s belt. The belt broke like a piece of butcher’s string. The big man put an enormous hand flat against the bouncer’s spine and heaved. He threw him clear across the room, spinning and staggering and flailing with his arms. Three men jumped out of the way. The bouncer went over with a table and smacked into the baseboard with a crash that must have been heard in Denver. His legs twitched then he lay still.

‘Some guys,’ the big man said, ‘has got wrong ideas about when to get tough.’ He turned to me. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Let’s you and me nibble one.’

Farewell, My Lovely by Raymond Chandler