Literally. On my phone. In bed. Forgot (nearly) to write something, so here it is.
I’ve very surprised by how much I’m enjoying the Marlowe books. It’s not even the desperate pessimism of the hardboiled thing. They’re just super solid writing by a writer who knows when it’s time to get fancy and whose nut-n-bolts prose is artful and elegant when it isn’t.
I also read one of the last books first, which might be a mistake, since it’s aparently the apotheosis of his output.
I particulalrly like that although written in the first person, Marlowe has a private mind and comes to conclusions in between the lines, and only reveals them when he feels like it. Much better than many writers (myself included) who’ll run the whole logic out in a big dreary curtain of exposition.
Nuff said.