Farewell, 2021 My lowest Lovely online sale

Farewell, 2021 My lowest Lovely online sale

Farewell, 2021 My lowest Lovely online sale
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Description

Product Description

Crime fiction master Raymond Chandler''s second novel featuring Philip Marlowe, the "quintessential urban private eye" (Los Angeles Times). 

Philip Marlowe''s about to give up on a completely routine case when he finds himself in the wrong place at the right time to get caught up in a murder that leads to a ring of jewel thieves, another murder, a fortune-teller, a couple more murders, and more corruption than your average graveyard.

From Library Journal

Chandler is not only the best writer of hardboiled PI stories, he''s one of the 20th century''s top scribes, period. His full canon of novels and short stories is reprinted in trade paper featuring uniform covers in Black Lizard''s signature style. A handsome set for a reasonable price.
Copyright 2002 Reed Business Information, Inc.

Review

"Raymond Chandler is a master." -- The New York Times

“[Chandler] wrote as if pain hurt and life mattered.” -- The New Yorker

“Chandler seems to have created the culminating American hero: wised up, hopeful, thoughtful, adventurous, sentimental, cynical and rebellious.” --Robert B. Parker, The New York Times Book Review

“Philip Marlowe remains the quintessential urban private eye.” -- Los Angeles Times

“Nobody can write like Chandler on his home turf, not even Faulkner. . . . An original. . . . A great artist.” — The Boston Book Review

“Raymond Chandler was one of the finest prose writers of the twentieth century. . . . Age does not wither Chandler’s prose. . . . He wrote like an angel.” -- Literary Review

“[T]he prose rises to heights of unselfconscious eloquence, and we realize with a jolt of excitement that we are in the presence of not a mere action tale teller, but a stylist, a writer with a vision.” --Joyce Carol Oates, The New York Review of Books

“Chandler wrote like a slumming angel and invested the sun-blinded streets of Los Angeles with a romantic presence.” —Ross Macdonald

“Raymond Chandler is a star of the first magnitude.” --Erle Stanley Gardner

“Raymond Chandler invented a new way of talking about America, and America has never looked the same to us since.” --Paul Auster

“[Chandler]’s the perfect novelist for our times. He takes us into a different world, a world that’s like ours, but isn’t. ” --Carolyn See

From the Inside Flap

Marlowe''s about to give up on a completely routine case when he finds himself in the wrong place at the right time to get caught up in a murder that leads to a ring of jewel thieves, another murder, a fortune-teller, a couple more murders, and more corruption than your average graveyard.

From the Back Cover

All she did was take her hand out of her bag, with a gun in it. All she did was point it at me and smile. All did was nothing...Moose Malloy stepped out of the dressing room, with the Colt .45 still looking like a toy in his big hairy paw.

About the Author

Raymond Thornton Chandler (1888 - 1959) was the master practitioner of American hard-boiled crime fiction. Although he was born in Chicago, Chandler spent most of his boyhood and youth in England where he attended Dulwich College and later worked as a freelance journalist for The Westminster Gazette and The Spectator. During World War I, Chandler served in France with the First Division of the Canadian Expeditionary Force, transferring later to the Royal Flying Corps (R. A. F.). In 1919 he returned to the United States, settling in California, where he eventually became director of a number of independent oil companies. The Depression put an end to his career, and in 1933, at the age of forty-five, he turned to writing fiction, publishing his first stories in Black Mask. Chandler’s detective stories often starred the brash but honorable Philip Marlowe (introduced in 1939 in his first novel, The Big Sleep) and were noted for their literate presentation and dead-on critical eye. Never a prolific writer, Chandler published only one collection of stories and seven novels in his lifetime. Some of Chandler’s novels, like The Big Sleep, were made into classic movies which helped define the film noir style. In the last year of his life he was elected president of the Mystery Writers of America. He died in La Jolla, California on March 26, 1959.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

ONE

It was one of the mixed blocks over on Central Avenue, the blocks that are not yet all Negro. I had just come out of a three-chair barber shop where an agency thought a relief barber named Dimitrios Aleidis might be working. It was a small matter. His wife said she was willing to spend a little money to have him come home.

I never found him, but Mrs. Aleidis never paid me any money either.

It was a warm day, almost the end of March, and I stood outside the barber shop looking up at the jutting neon sign of a second floor dine and dice emporium called Florian''s. A man was looking up at the sign too. He was looking up at the dusty windows with a sort of ecstatic fixity of expression, like a hunky immigrant catching his first sight of the Statue of Liberty. He was a big man but not more than six feet five inches tall and not wider than a beer truck. He was about ten feet away from me. His arms hung loose at his sides and a forgotten cigar smoked behind his enormous fingers.

Slim quiet Negroes passed up and down the street and stared at him with darting side glances. He was worth looking at. He wore a shaggy borsalino hat, a rough gray sports coat with white golf balls on it for buttons, a brown shirt, a yellow tie, pleated gray flannel slacks and alligator shoes with white explosions on the toes. From his outer breast pocket cascaded a show handkerchief of the same brilliant yellow as his tie. There were a couple of colored feathers tucked into the band of his hat, but he didn''t really need them. Even on Central Avenue, not the quietest dressed street in the world, he looked about as inconspicuous as a tarantula on a slice of angel food.

His skin was pale and he needed a shave. He would always need a shave. He had curly black hair and heavy eyebrows that almost met over his thick nose. His ears were small and neat for a man of that size and his eyes had a shine close to tears that gray eyes often seem to have. He stood like a statue, and after a long time he smiled.

He moved slowly across the sidewalk to the double swinging doors which shut off the stairs to the second floor. He pushed them open, cast a cool expressionless glance up and down the street, and moved inside. If he had been a smaller man and more quietly dressed, I might have thought he was going to pull a stick-up. But not in those clothes, and not with that hat, and that frame.

The doors swung back outwards and almost settled to a stop. Before they had entirely stopped moving they opened again, violently, outwards. Something sailed across the sidewalk and landed in the gutter between two parked cars. It landed on its hands and knees and made a high keening noise like a cornered rat. It got up slowly, retrieved a hat and stepped back onto the sidewalk. It was a thin, narrow-shouldered brown youth in a lilac colored suit and a carnation. It had slick black hair. It kept its mouth open and whined for a moment. People stared at it vaguely. Then it settled its hat jauntily, sidled over to the wall and walked silently splay-footed off along the block.

Silence. Traffic resumed. I walked along to the double doors and stood in front of them. They were motionless now. It wasn''t any of my business. So I pushed them open and looked in.

A hand I could have sat in came out of the dimness and took hold of my shoulder and squashed it to a pulp. Then the hand moved me through the doors and casually lifted me up a step. The large face looked at me. A deep soft voice said to me, quietly:

"Smokes in here, huh? Tie that for me, pal."

It was dark in there. It was quiet. From up above came vague sounds of humanity, but we were alone on the stairs. The big man stared at me solemnly and went on wrecking my shoulder with his hand.

"A dinge," he said. "I just thrown him out. You seen me throw him out?"

He let go of my shoulder. The bone didn''t seem to be broken, but the arm was numb.

"It''s that kind of a place," I said, rubbing my shoulder. "What did you expect?"

"Don''t say that, pal," the big man purred softly, like four tigers after dinner. "Velma used to work here. Little Velma."

He reached for my shoulder again. I tried to dodge him but he was as fast as a cat. He began to chew my muscles up some more with his iron fingers.

"Yeah," he said. "Little Velma. I ain''t seen her in eight years. You say this here is a dinge joint?"

I croaked that it was.

He lifted me up two more steps. I wrenched myself loose and tried for a little elbow room. I wasn''t wearing a gun. Looking for Dimitrios Aleidis hadn''t seemed to require it. I doubted if it would do me any good. The big man would probably take it away from me and eat it.

"Go on up and see for yourself," I said, trying to keep the agony out of my voice.

He let go of me again. He looked at me with a sort of sadness in his gray eyes. "I''m feelin'' good," he said. "I wouldn''t want anybody to fuss with me. Let''s you and me go on up and maybe nibble a couple."

"They won''t serve you. I told you it''s a colored joint."

"I ain''t seen Velma in eight years," he said in his deep sad voice. "Eight long years since I said good-by. She ain''t wrote to me in six. But she''ll have a reason. She used to work here. Cute she was. Let''s you and me go on up, huh?"

"All right," I yelled. "I''ll go up with you. Just lay off carrying me. Let me walk. I''m fine. I''m all grown up. I go to the bathroom alone and everything. Just don''t carry me."

"Little Velma used to work here," he said gently. He wasn''t listening to me.

We went on up the stairs. He let me walk. My shoulder ached. The back of my neck was wet.

TWO

Two more swing doors closed off the head of the stairs from whatever was beyond. The big man pushed them open lightly with his thumbs and we went into the room. It was a long narrow room, not very clean, not very bright, not very cheerful. In the corner a group of Negroes chanted and chattered in the cone of light over a crap table. There was a bar against the right hand wall. The rest of the room was mostly small round tables. There were a few customers, men and women, all Negroes.

The chanting at the crap table stopped dead and the light over it jerked out. There was a sudden silence as heavy as a water-logged boat. Eyes looked at us, chestnut colored eyes, set in faces that ranged from gray to deep black. Heads turned slowly and the eyes in them glistened and stared in the dead alien silence of another race.

A large, thick-necked Negro was leaning against the end of the bar with pink garters on his shirt sleeves and pink and white suspenders crossing his broad back. He had bouncer written all over him. He put his lifted foot down slowly and turned slowly and stared at us, spreading his feet gently and moving a broad tongue along his lips. He had a battered face that looked as if it had been hit by everything but the bucket of a dragline. It was scarred, flattened, thickened, checkered, and welted. It was a face that had nothing to fear. Everything had been done to it that anybody could think of.

The short crinkled hair had a touch of gray. One ear had lost the lobe.

The Negro was heavy and wide. He had big heavy legs and they looked a little bowed, which is unusual in a Negro. He moved his tongue some more and smiled and moved his body. He came towards us in a loose fighter''s crouch. The big man waited for him silently.

The Negro with the pink garters on his arms put a massive brown hand against the big man''s chest. Large as it was, the hand looked like a stud. The big man didn''t move. The bouncer smiled gently.

"No white folks, brother. Jes'' fo'' the colored people. I''se sorry."

The big man moved his small sad gray eyes and looked around the room. His cheeks flushed a little. "Shine box," he said angrily, under his breath. He raised his voice. "Where''s Velma at?" he asked the bouncer.

The bouncer didn''t quite laugh. He studied the big man''s clothes, his brown shirt and yellow tie, his rough gray coat and the white golf balls on it. He moved his thick head around delicately and studied all this from various angles. He looked down at the alligator shoes. He chuckled lightly. He seemed amused. I felt a little sorry for him. He spoke softly again.

"Velma, you says? No Velma heah, brother. No hooch, no gals, no nothing. Jes'' the scram, white boy, jes'' the scram."

"Velma used to work here," the big man said. He spoke almost dreamily, as if he was all by himself, out in the woods, picking johnny-jump-ups. I got my handkerchief out and wiped the back of my neck again.

The bouncer laughed suddenly. "Shuah," he said, throwing a quick look back over his shoulder at his public. "Velma used to work heah. But Velma don''t work heah no mo''. She done reti''ed. Haw, haw."

"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 color of a large eggplant. He had his job, his reputation for toughness, his public esteem to consider. He considered them for a second and 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 his enormous hands 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."

We went over to the bar. The customers, by ones and twos and threes, became quiet shadows that drifted soundless across the floor, soundless through the doors at the head of the stairs. Soundless as shadows on the grass. They didn''t even let the doors swing.

We leaned against the bar. "Whiskey sour," the big man said. "Call yours."

"Whiskey sour," I said.

We had whiskey sours.

The big man licked his whiskey sour impassively down the side of the thick squat glass. He stared solemnly at the barman, a thin, worried-looking Negro in a white coat who moved as if his feet hurt him.

" You know where Velma is?"

"Velma, you says?" the barman whined. "I ain''t seen her ''round heah lately. Not right lately, nossuh."

"How long you been here?"

"Let''s see," the barman put his towel down and wrinkled his forehead and started to count on his fingers. "''Bout ten months, I reckon. ''Bout a yeah. ''Bout--"

"Make your mind up," the big man said.

The barman goggled and his Adam''s apple flopped around like a headless chicken.

"How long''s this coop been a dinge joint?" the big man demanded gruffly.

"Says which?"

The big man made a fist into which his whiskey sour glass melted almost out of sight.

"Five years anyway," I said. "This fellow wouldn''t know anything about a white girl named Velma. Nobody here would."

The big man looked at me as if I had just hatched out. His whiskey sour hadn''t seemed to improve his temper.

"Who the hell asked you to stick your face in?" he asked me.

I smiled. I made it a big warm friendly smile. "I''m the fellow that came in with you. Remember?"

He grinned back then, a flat white grin without meaning. "Whiskey sour," he told the barman. "Shake them fleas outa your pants. Service."

The barman scuttled around, rolling the whites of his eyes. I put my back against the bar and looked at the room. It was now empty, save for the barman, the big man and myself, and the bouncer crushed over against the wall. The bouncer was moving. He was moving slowly as if with great pain and effort. He was crawling softly along the baseboard like a fly with one wing. He was moving behind the tables, wearily, a man suddenly old, suddenly disillusioned. I watched him move. The barman put down two more whiskey sours. I turned to the bar. The big man glanced casually over at the crawling bouncer and then paid no further attention to him.

"There ain''t nothing left of the joint," he complained. "They was a little stage and band and cute little rooms where a guy could have fun. Velma did some warbling. A redhead she was. Cute as lace pants. We was to of been married when they hung the frame on me."

I took my second whiskey sour. I was beginning to have enough of the adventure. "What frame?" I asked.

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4.5 out of 54.5 out of 5
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Top reviews from the United States

Frank DonnellyTop Contributor: Poetry Books
4.0 out of 5 starsVerified Purchase
Some Really Excellent Writing, But VERY Dated in Terms of Racial Referenc
Reviewed in the United States on July 8, 2020
"Farewell My Lovely" is a 1940 American Noir Crime Novel authored by Raymond Chandler. This protagonist is Philip Marlowe, a hard bitten private detective. The mystery itself is clever. Some of the writing, particularly about scenery and metaphor is masterful. To that... See more
"Farewell My Lovely" is a 1940 American Noir Crime Novel authored by Raymond Chandler. This protagonist is Philip Marlowe, a hard bitten private detective. The mystery itself is clever. Some of the writing, particularly about scenery and metaphor is masterful. To that extent the work is probably a five star crime novel.

My concern and dilemma in writing this review is the really insensitive and dated vernacular and nomenclature about minorities and women. I have never worked in the publishing industry. My guess is this work would not be published as an original work by any mainstream American publisher today. I do not wish to offend the sensitivities of any reader.

I do not believe in censorship. I want to read literature as written. If there is insensitivity, I use that as a means of reflection, learning and self improvement.

At a strictly practical level, I have had readers tell me that they do not care about writing about scenery. I respect that, but Raymond Chandler is a master in depicting scenery. If one doe not care about scenery and metaphor, one may not enjoy this work as I do.

In summary, I really like this story. I really like American Crime Noir. I love expert depiction of scenery. I love artful metaphor. In that context, I really like this work. On the other had, there is a lot of "cringe factor" contained within this work. As a parent I would not allow my youthful children to read this without very serious parental guidance. Thank You...
22 people found this helpful
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Dave Wilde
5.0 out of 5 starsVerified Purchase
Down These Mean Streets
Reviewed in the United States on February 15, 2020
When you open up any dictionary and you look up the phrase Hardboiled private eye, you''ll find it defined right there in black and white as Raymond Chandler''s Philip Marlowe. If much of the book seems familiar, it may be that you read it many years ago or that so many of... See more
When you open up any dictionary and you look up the phrase Hardboiled private eye, you''ll find it defined right there in black and white as Raymond Chandler''s Philip Marlowe. If much of the book seems familiar, it may be that you read it many years ago or that so many of the motifs were borrowed and used by so many other private eye writers over the years. But if you want to know how it''s really done, you return to the master Hardboiled craftsman himself.

I always picture Philip Marlowe as Humphrey Bogart and no one can ever shake that image from me. However, Bogart only played Marlowe in the film adaptation of the first book in the series, The Big Sleep. For Farewell, My Lovely, you get the film images of Dick Powell and Robert Mitchum.

But, you always get the mean streets of Los Angeles no matter how you picture Marlowe. These streets range from the seedy joints lining Central Avenue to the estates in Beverly Hills and Brentwood Heights. The streets lead of course to Chandler''s fictional Bay City, loosely based on what was a crooked Santa Monica right down to the gambling boats three legal miles offshore.

Marlowe here is always quick with a quip but world-weary. He''s seen it all a time or two and nothing necessarily surprises him except maybe getting knocked out when he''s playing bodyguard or locked up and drug-addled in a sanitarium.

The very beginning of the novel sets the whole attitude as Marlowe nonchalantly accepts a great big ape of a guy, Moose Malloy, no less, throwing a guy bodily out if his way. Moose is a great character, a singleminded maniac returned to the street after eight years in the pen and determined to find his gal, Vera. Gil Brewer later created a whole novel about such a guy in The Angry Dream.

All the usual Hardboiled rackets are well-represented here from blackmail to fortune telling to crooked cops to payoffs to rich folks living in a different world. Through it all, Marlowe resolutely starts adding up all these things that just don''t add up and couldn''t possibly be related. But what makes it such a joy to read is the fantastic prose, the descriptions of people and places that just bring them to life, often with a sardonic humor.
7 people found this helpful
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99 River St
5.0 out of 5 starsVerified Purchase
Not surprisingly, far batter than the various film adaptations.
Reviewed in the United States on May 6, 2017
Although it is difficult to not hear Bogart''s voice in Marlowe''s, and that is not a bad thing, it is Raymond Chandler''s voice that makes this book a treasure. Having read Chandler''s and Hammett''s books decades ago, I recently decided to revisit them in order. Much like... See more
Although it is difficult to not hear Bogart''s voice in Marlowe''s, and that is not a bad thing, it is Raymond Chandler''s voice that makes this book a treasure. Having read Chandler''s and Hammett''s books decades ago, I recently decided to revisit them in order. Much like Truman Capote''s, Breakfast at Tiffany''s, the book, Farewell My Lovely, is at times, fairly unrecognizable from the any of its celluloid counterparts. Also, not a bad thing, and this case a very good thing. The behind the scenes subplots and character studies are meaty and delicious. Rather than try and guess
the outcome, I prefer to enjoy the ride, and like Hammett, Chandler never lets you down.
24 people found this helpful
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Boston Reader
5.0 out of 5 starsVerified Purchase
It all starts with a big guy named Moose
Reviewed in the United States on March 6, 2017
While finishing up on another case, Marlowe spots a big white guy go into a bar and gambling club for blacks. He''s looking for a girl. As Marlowe tries to get away from the case, his next client hires him for a job that goes wrong. There''s a connection between Moose, a... See more
While finishing up on another case, Marlowe spots a big white guy go into a bar and gambling club for blacks. He''s looking for a girl. As Marlowe tries to get away from the case, his next client hires him for a job that goes wrong. There''s a connection between Moose, a stolen necklace, a nut house and a fortune teller. This one has it all. A maniac thug, drugs, guns, corruption and femme fetales including a wealthy blonde.

Raymond Chandler brings L.A to life in this thriller about people looking for something, or trying to get rid of it. We''re introduced to the character of Anne Riordan, a recurring character in Marlowe''s mythos especially in the HBO tv series from the 80s.

Marlowe is a white knight who is constantly getting his butt whooped through the streets of L.A by crooks, cons and cops and for what? Pocket change if he''s lucky.
13 people found this helpful
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TJC
5.0 out of 5 starsVerified Purchase
Farewell, My Lovely
Reviewed in the United States on October 1, 2014
I wanted to read Chandler''s Farewell My Lovely after I read that Chandler considered it his best book, even better than The Big Sleep and after reading both I agree with their author. It has everything fans of private detective novels look for: a tough, independent Philip... See more
I wanted to read Chandler''s Farewell My Lovely after I read that Chandler considered it his best book, even better than The Big Sleep and after reading both I agree with their author. It has everything fans of private detective novels look for: a tough, independent Philip Marlowe as its hero,two beautiful women ( one benevolent, one highly dangerous) both hiding secrets, a baffling case ( a client who hires Marlowe is murdered), a host of crooked people with possible connections to organized crime who collectively try to prevent Marlowe''s discovering the truth even if it means killing him.Finally, Marlowe unravels the secrets, survives numerous scrapes with the bad people (on a lonely road, aboard an offshore gambling joint and in a shady hospital) and brings the action to a surprising conclusion..

I don''t know if Chandler introduced all of conventions of the genre, but they are in full display. Marlowe is the essential lower class detective cleaning up the messes of his socially superior, infinitely wealthier, but morally decadent clients. In the corrupt world of big city LA, he is a lone wolf who not only refuses to follow orders but also displays a quick, somewhat cynical wit. Handsome and strong he appeals to women, but will not be manipulated by them. No wonder Bogart played him in the movies. All in all it''s a great read in a nostalgic, somewhat politically incorrect way.
16 people found this helpful
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Saul R
1.0 out of 5 starsVerified Purchase
Grim, dark, improbable, disappointing
Reviewed in the United States on July 4, 2020
I had just read some of Dashiell Hammett''s books (Sam Spade, Thin Man, etc and went on to Raymond Chandler and The Big Sleep, which I enjoyed. Then I hit this Farewell My Lovely, which was grim, dark, dated and depressing, with an implausible, improbable and not even... See more
I had just read some of Dashiell Hammett''s books (Sam Spade, Thin Man, etc and went on to Raymond Chandler and The Big Sleep, which I enjoyed. Then I hit this Farewell My Lovely, which was grim, dark, dated and depressing, with an implausible, improbable and not even faintly believable plot. I couldn''t believe all the positive reviews I was seeing. Oh, and by the way, it was also casually extremely racist (which was probably normal for the time it was written, but very jarring in the present-day world).
2 people found this helpful
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bookgal
4.0 out of 5 starsVerified Purchase
Classic 1940s Era Mystery — And Great Reading!
Reviewed in the United States on June 17, 2018
You don''t get much better that a story set in classic LA in the 1940s with Phillip Marlow and Farewell, My Lovely has it all. The private eye gives rein to his curiosity and entered a black bar and comes out with an ex-con on the lookout for a torch singer named Velma.... See more
You don''t get much better that a story set in classic LA in the 1940s with Phillip Marlow and Farewell, My Lovely has it all. The private eye gives rein to his curiosity and entered a black bar and comes out with an ex-con on the lookout for a torch singer named Velma. Soon, Marlow is looking for the woman as well.

Along the way Marlow gets involved with a whole host of shady characters, and physically, he comes out on the short end. Despite it all, however, he manages to stay focused and eventually, solves not only the mystery of the torch singer but a couple of murders and the clean up of a small town. If its all in a day''s work for the PI, its darn good good reading for the reader. This writing never gets old and the tale is always welcome.
4 people found this helpful
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John Warrant
5.0 out of 5 starsVerified Purchase
Terrific. Chandler is a master. Marlowe is his masterpiece.
Reviewed in the United States on April 19, 2020
You could read this book 5 times, and find something new with each reading. The story and the mystery are first rate. The characters are alive and vivid, Moose, Velma, the dirty cops, the con men, and,of course Marlowe. The descriptions of people, landscape, situations, and... See more
You could read this book 5 times, and find something new with each reading. The story and the mystery are first rate. The characters are alive and vivid, Moose, Velma, the dirty cops, the con men, and,of course Marlowe. The descriptions of people, landscape, situations, and especially eyes, border on poetry - but poetry that packs a blackjack’s slap..And, even though the movies made from the book are excellent, they leave out so much that you can enjoy them each a different way.
One person found this helpful
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Top reviews from other countries

Ralph Walker
5.0 out of 5 starsVerified Purchase
A Real Classic
Reviewed in the United Kingdom on July 31, 2021
I couldn''t put this Phillip Marlowe story down. The intricate plot gives a measure of Chandler''s skill, as two apparently unconnected plots suddenly join in a twist and conclusion, which once revealed is totally unexpected but exactly right for the story. Phillip Marlowe''s...See more
I couldn''t put this Phillip Marlowe story down. The intricate plot gives a measure of Chandler''s skill, as two apparently unconnected plots suddenly join in a twist and conclusion, which once revealed is totally unexpected but exactly right for the story. Phillip Marlowe''s grittiness, his timeless wisecracks and one liners make him a character worth enjoying!
One person found this helpful
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Matt Bell
5.0 out of 5 starsVerified Purchase
Tremendously written with real artistry
Reviewed in the United Kingdom on November 22, 2020
I’m new to Raymond Chandler’s private detective, Philip Marlow. Where have you been all my life ? Fantastic storytelling written with such silky smoothness - tremendous.
2 people found this helpful
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T. Bently
5.0 out of 5 starsVerified Purchase
Searching for Velma
Reviewed in the United Kingdom on April 21, 2012
Farewell My Lovely is perhaps my favourite of all Raymond Chandler''s books, although he was not a prolific author and there aren''t too many to choose from. I guess he was a perfectionist. Like all his novels, it has a memorable beginning, this time with Philip Marlowe...See more
Farewell My Lovely is perhaps my favourite of all Raymond Chandler''s books, although he was not a prolific author and there aren''t too many to choose from. I guess he was a perfectionist. Like all his novels, it has a memorable beginning, this time with Philip Marlowe spotting a man outside a bar wearing a sports coat with golfballs on it for buttons and alligator shoes with ''white explosions on the toes''. His curiosity leads him to several bruising encounters with local gangsters. What I like most about Farewell is the evocation of Bay City, a respectable Californian seaside community which hides a grimy heart. I love his descriptions of the town: ''Beyond the electroliers, beyond the beat and toot of the small sidewalk cars, beyond the smell of hot fat and popcorn and the small children and the barkers in the peep shows, beyond everything but the smell of the ocean... I walked almost alone now''. The only person writing anything at all like this at the time was Graham Green in Brighton Rock. The characters are all memorable from six-foot Moose Malloy (''not wider than a beer truck''), to corrupt police sergeants to a would-be female detective. The dialogue is snappy and the pace is always full-on. Whilst many other writers of the time (such as Agatha Christie) seem like quaint period pieces, Chandler is still as fresh and modern as the day he was first published. On the downside, the slang and volcabulary confuse me. People drink gimlets and big houses have portes-coucheres. But it hardly seems to matter. You just get swept along by the prose. Thanks, then, to Penguin for reprinting Chandler''s entire output in these handsome new covers with short and sweet introductions from contemporary crime hacks. I think the author would have loved them.
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Tone the Cone
3.0 out of 5 starsVerified Purchase
Not classic Chandler but still a good read with usual one liner humour.
Reviewed in the United Kingdom on June 19, 2017
I love the style of Chandlers writing and the one liners, although written a while back, has dated in some respects , but the humour still carries. A great quote about Hemingway in the novel , about always repeating himself so much that you tend to believe eventually!! The...See more
I love the style of Chandlers writing and the one liners, although written a while back, has dated in some respects , but the humour still carries. A great quote about Hemingway in the novel , about always repeating himself so much that you tend to believe eventually!! The story in this novel I feel not one of his best, but still worth the read.
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conjunction
4.0 out of 5 starsVerified Purchase
Lovely is Right
Reviewed in the United Kingdom on April 30, 2011
I don''t read a lot of thrillers and this is the first Chandler I''ve read. As many have said before, this is a step and a half above your average good thriller, the reason being the wit and intelligence of the prose, the elegance of the descriptions and the understanding of...See more
I don''t read a lot of thrillers and this is the first Chandler I''ve read. As many have said before, this is a step and a half above your average good thriller, the reason being the wit and intelligence of the prose, the elegance of the descriptions and the understanding of character which is compassionate, passionate and cynical all at the same time. His flip one-liners aren''t just clever, but oil the wheels of the plot. Some of the references I couldn''t understand, they belong to the period or the locality, but the plot moves along because the characters find common ground by means of their expressions in the shifting sands of what is acceptable and what is not in the way of behaviour. Another thing is that reading this is a bit like watching a film, Los Angeles comes to life before your eyes. On the downside there''s a slight sense of not looking very far beneath the surface, it would slow the book down.
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