Raymond Chandler
Raymond Chandler
Raymond Thornton Chandlerwas a British-American novelist and screenwriter. In 1932, at the age of forty-four, Chandler became a detective fiction writer after losing his job as an oil company executive during the Great Depression. His first short story, "Blackmailers Don't Shoot", was published in 1933 in Black Mask, a popular pulp magazine. His first novel, The Big Sleep, was published in 1939. In addition to his short stories, Chandler published seven novels during his lifetime. All but Playback have been...
NationalityAmerican
ProfessionNovelist
Date of Birth23 July 1888
CityChicago, IL
CountryUnited States of America
Tall, aren't you? I didn't mean to be.
She had eyes like strange sins.
I don’t mind if you don’t like my manners. They’re pretty bad. I grieve over them during the long winter evenings.
She was kind of girl who'd eat all your cashews and leave you with nothing but peanuts and filberts.
It is not a fragrant world.
I do a great deal of research - particularly in the apartments of tall blondes.
Good critical writing is measured by the perception and evaluation of the subject; bad critical writing by the necessity of maintaining the professional standing of the critic.
I guess God made Boston on a wet Sunday.
Television is just one more facet of that considerable segment of our society that never had any standard but the soft buck.
The reading public is intellectually adolescent at best, and it is obvious that what is called ''significant literature'' will only be sold to this public by exactly the same methods as are used to sell it toothpaste, cathartics and automobiles.
The moment a man sets his thoughts down on paper, however secretly, he is in a sense writing for publication.
It was about eleven o'clock in the morning, mid October, with the sun not shining and a look of hard wet rain in the clearness of the foothills. I was wearing my powder-blue suit, with dark blue shirt, tie and display handkerchief, black brogues, black wool socks with dark little clocks on them. I was neat, clean, shaved and sober, and I didn't care who knew it. I was everything the well-dressed private detective ought to be. I was calling on four million dollars.
Great critics, of whom there are piteously few, build a home for the truth.
He was a guy who talked with commas, like a heavy novel. Over the phone anyway.