Stiff

[cbertsch]

As an addendum to my previous entry on Raymond Chandler's The High Window I offer the next passage in which Marlowe scans the photograph of the woman with the "cool dark eyes:"

I hung up and lit my pipe again and sat there looking at the wall. My face was stiff with thought, or with something that made my face stiff. I took Linda Murdock's photo out of my pocket, stared at it for a while, decided that the face was pretty commonplace after all, locked the photo away in my desk.

There's something about the way Chandler uses the word "something."

Comments

Stiff face?!

[kdotdammit.livejournal.com]

Yeah. Right. As if his face is the only thing that's stiff. Hmpf. That man is N*A*S*T*Y!

Re: Stiff face?!

[elizabeg.livejournal.com]

Yep. Hmpf indeed. When I read The Big Sleep, I got to be a little worried when I loved passages of Chandler's prose or bits of Marlowe's observation--because I always knew I'd soon come upon one of those women are pretty playthings to pretend I hate but get off on bits, or one of those gay-bashing bits, or one of those could my fear of my own impotence be more blatant bits, or...

Re: Stiff face?!

[cbertsch.livejournal.com]

The misogyny of the hard-boiled novel is trickier than it seems, as your comment about "impotence" suggests. Part of me feels that it's better to have strong women with "go-to-hell" mouths portrayed as worthy adversaries than to have a less overtly sexist but more patronizing representation. At least the women in the hard-boiled novels I've read -- with the exception of Mickey Spillane, who is in a different category, for several reasons -- are complex characters with mixed feelings and the capacity to plan. Like men in other words.

Of course, there's a big difference between Marlowe and Chandler, since the latter was never really part of the former's world, best I can tell -- unlike Hammett -- and was so old when he started writing.

Ahh, the physical descriptions. Awesome.

Re: Stiff face?!

[elizabeg.livejournal.com]

Yep. Hmpf indeed. When I read The Big Sleep, I got to be a little worried when I loved passages of Chandler's prose or bits of Marlowe's observation--because I always knew I'd soon come upon one of those women are pretty playthings to pretend I hate but get off on bits, or one of those gay-bashing bits, or one of those could my fear of my own impotence be more blatant bits, or...