Jim Thompson - Nothing More Than Murder

In Nothing More Than Murder, Jim Thompson appears at first to be working within the familiar framework of Double Indemnity: an unhappy marriage, an affair, and a plan driven by money and insurance. Yet the novel gradually undermines that expectation. The crime ultimately gives no one anything of real value. There is no triumph, no glamorous payoff.

What truly drives the protagonist is not greed alone, but a provincial power fantasy. As the owner of a small-town movie theater, he sees himself as a local magnate, locked in petty rivalries and desperate to assert dominance. The murder becomes less a calculated financial maneuver and more an extension of his fragile need for control. Thompson strips the noir formula of its sheen and exposes the smallness beneath the ambition.

Among the writers published by Gold Medal Books, Jim Thompson remains, for me, the most compelling. Even more than David Goodis, whose work I admire but often find overwhelmingly atmospheric and steeped in a kind of relentless depression. Where Goodis immerses the reader in mood and despair, Thompson balances psychological darkness with structural control and narrative momentum. His novels feel less suffocating and more sharply observed, driven not only by emotion but by a clear understanding of character and consequence.

Jim Thompson - The Criminal

 

In The Criminal, Jim Thompson builds the narrative around the murder of a young girl and the accusation against a boy who knew her. Rather than functioning as a conventional whodunit, the novel unfolds through multiple perspectives, creating a fragmented structure that almost recalls Rashomon. Yet Thompson’s purpose is not to relativize truth but to expose the moral decay of individuals and institutions.

What I found particularly compelling is the battle between the district attorney and the boy’s defense lawyer, especially during the interrogations. Their questioning turns into a subtle contest of power and interpretation, where the boy becomes less a person and more a battleground for competing ambitions. The tension does not arise from discovering new facts, but from watching how authority shapes, pressures, and reframes those facts. The crime becomes a lens through which the legal system itself is examined — and quietly condemned.

Gil Brewer - Wild To Possess/A Taste Of Sin

 

When I bought Wild to Possess and A Taste of Sin, I thought I had discovered an interesting pulp writer. After finishing both novels, however, I was left rather disappointed.

Wild to Possess begins in an intriguing way: the protagonist discovers an attempted murder involving a woman and her lover, apparently motivated by money. The situation is complicated by his own secret — he once found a woman and her lover dead. As the story progresses, the lover’s brother appears and accuses him of being responsible for the deaths. The premise promises psychological tension and moral ambiguity, but as the plot unfolds, the structure begins to feel unstable and the characters’ motivations insufficiently developed.

In A Taste of Sin, there is a stronger emphasis on sexual tension and a planned bank robbery. While these elements could have created greater momentum, the story never quite achieves the necessary narrative control. The stakes feel lower than they should, and the tension fails to build in a convincing way.

It is perhaps worth noting that Gil Brewer struggled heavily with alcoholism and addiction to sleeping pills, something that may have affected both the consistency and discipline of his writing.

James Crumley - The Last Good Kiss

The Last Good Kiss (1978) is often cited as one of the key American crime novels of the late twentieth century, yet it ultimately transcends the boundaries of classic noir. Instead of a claustrophobic trap of fate, Crumley presents a vast American landscape — highways, bars, and motel rooms — through which private investigator C.W. Sughrue wanders more as a lost witness than as a traditional detective.

The novel is melancholic, darkly humorous, and slower than one might expect from the genre. The investigation provides the narrative framework, but the true subject is the exhaustion of the post-Vietnam generation, moral erosion, and a persistent sense of disorientation. Crumley builds atmosphere rather than suspense; his characters drink, talk, and drift through spaces that feel geographically expansive yet emotionally empty.

Crumley’s personal life — marked by long-term alcoholism and struggles with cocaine — left a visible imprint on his writing. His novels carry an authentic sense of self-destructiveness and inner disintegration, without romanticizing it. In The Last Good Kiss, alcohol is not a symbol of bohemian glamour, but part of the everyday existence of characters attempting to dull disappointment and loss.

For that reason, the novel reads less like classic noir and more like a literary novel featuring a private detective — a story of a search that reveals not only a missing person, but the emotional exhaustion of the world through which its protagonist moves.

Martin Goldsmith - Detour

 

Detour is one of the purest and most merciless examples of classic noir, a novel in which there is no investigation, no crime in the conventional sense, and no possibility of redemption. What remains is the inner collapse of a man who believes he is being hunted by fate—and the novel persistently suggests that he may be right.

The protagonist, Alexander Roth, is not a typical pulp figure. He is introspective, educated, and keenly aware of his own vulnerability, yet this awareness offers no salvation. Goldsmith masterfully employs interior monologue to show how a chain of coincidences, bad decisions, and ill-fated encounters turns into a prison with no exit. Fate in this novel is not a metaphor—it is an active force, cold and inescapable.

The book is short, dense, and stripped of everything superfluous. There are no psychological justifications and no attempts to comfort the reader with explanations. As in the finest noir fiction, everything is already lost; the tension arises not from whether collapse will occur, but when.

The female character is not a classic femme fatale but rather a weapon of fate—a figure who enters the story not to seduce, but to complete what has already begun. Her presence merely accelerates the movement toward the inevitable end.

Compared to the film adaptation, the novel is colder and more pessimistic. The film Detour offers unforgettable atmosphere, but the book goes further: it refuses consolation, irony, or distance.

Detour is a novel without illusions, noir in its purest form—a story of a man caught in a merciless game of fate, where every decision, even the most trivial one, leads to the same outcome.

Guy Cullingford - Post Mortem

Guy Cullingford was a pseudonym of woman crime writer Constance Lindsay Taylor who wrote bunch of classic murder mysteries. This one is particularly unusual, being a tale of dysfunctional family whose father performed suicide, and now his ghost is observing the inquest, funeral and in itself is becoming some kind of ethereal sleuth. There is quite dreamlike poetry in musings of ghost and family itself is quite unconvential.

Jim Thompson - Pop. 1280

Jim Thompson’s Pop. 1280 is one of those rare crime novels that is both darkly funny and deeply disturbing.

On the surface, it reads like a grotesque comedy, but beneath the humor lies something far more corrosive. Thompson turns the small-town setting into a moral wasteland, where cruelty hides behind smiles, politeness, and folksy charm.

What makes the novel so powerful is Nick Corey’s voice: deceptively simple, almost naïve, yet carefully calculated. Thompson had, like very few writers, a profound insight into the mind of a psychopath. He does not explain or analyze it — he lets the reader inhabit it.The humor works as a trap — you laugh, and only afterward realize what you’ve been laughing at. Thompson’s prose is sharp, economical, and relentless, stripping away any illusion of innocence. 

In a strange way, Pop. 1280 is also poetic. Its rhythm, repetition, and cold clarity give the novel a bleak kind of beauty. Thompson doesn’t decorate violence or evil; he presents them plainly, and that starkness creates its own brutal poetry.

This is crime fiction at its most cynical and intelligent — a novel that entertains, unsettles, and lingers long after the final page.

Thompson was a hard alcoholic and many of his novels were fueled by alcohol, and eventually it killed him.

Charles Williams - Hot Spot

Hot Spot is pure, concentrated noir, with no excess and no excuses for its characters. Charles Williams wastes no time: the story starts fast and then tightens like a noose. One wrong judgment is enough for everything to fall apart.

The protagonist is neither a detective nor a hero, but an ordinary man who believes he has control over the situation. Of course, he doesn’t. Williams masterfully builds the relationship between desire, greed, and fear, without moralizing and without illusions. The femme fatale here is not a myth, but a cold fact.

The novel is short but precise. Every scene has a purpose, every line of dialogue drives the story toward its inevitable end. There are no ten-page psychological explanations—characters are revealed through their actions, and fate is not something that can be negotiated.

Hot Spot is a reminder of why classic noir never grows old: it speaks about weaknesses that never change. The mistake is made once. After that, everything moves only downhill.

Richard Hallas - You Play The Black And The Red Comes Up

You Play the Black and the Red Comes Up is a bleak Depression-era noir that blends hardboiled crime with social despair. Richard Hallas (Eric Knight) follows a drifting, defeated protagonist through a world of chance, poverty, and moral exhaustion, where every decision feels like a losing bet. The novel moves episodically, with sharp observations and sudden violence, capturing a raw sense of fatalism without romanticizing crime. Less polished than Cain but closer to McCoy in spirit, it stands out for its grim honesty and restless energy rather than tight plotting.

Elliot Chaze - Black Wings Has My Angel

Black Wings Has My Angel is often praised as a noir classic, but its reputation rests more on style than substance. Elliott Chaze focuses heavily on atmosphere and fatalism, using long, overwrought sentences that can feel pretentious and self-conscious. The mood is dark and nihilistic, but there is surprisingly little actual action, and the pacing often stalls under the weight of its own prose. While the novel has moments of power and a strong sense of doom, readers who prefer leaner, more dynamic noir may find it slow and frustrating.

Boris Vian - I spit on your graves

The celebrated pataphysician Boris Vian wrote this short, oversexed crime novel, charged with erotic intensity and uncontrolled, almost surrealistic violence.

Beneath the mask of American hard-boiled fiction, Vian exposes the sexual hypocrisy and deeply ingrained racism of American society.
Overall, Vian is an exceptionally fascinating writer: he loved jazz, beautiful women, and provocation, and although he died young, he left behind an impressive and remarkably diverse body of work.

This book still provokes strong reactions today, precisely because it exposes deeply ingrained moral hypocrisy and racism. However, what I find interesting and appealing is what lies beneath the surface layer: a skillfully told crime story, infused with large doses of eroticism and dreamlike narration.

Robin Buss - French Film Noir

A few years ago, I enjoyed discovering what had until then seemed to me an almost unimaginable number of excellent old French crime films. While looking for context and explanations of that world, I came across this book, which presents the evolution of French film noir very clearly and readably — from early black-and-white works up to films of the 1990s.

I particularly liked that the author mentions some of my personal favorites, such as Going Places, Monsieur Hire, The Moon in the Gutter, Rififi, The Beast Must Die, The Clockmaker, Série Noire, L.627, Diva, and Subway. On the other hand, I was somewhat disappointed that in the final list of French noir films, titles like Blood Relatives, La Horse, Grilling, One Deadly Summer, Betty Blue, Deadly Circuit, Beau-Père, Without Apparent Motive, and Trap for Cinderella are not mentioned. Still, this is only a minor criticism of an otherwise very valuable book.

The author convincingly traces the development of French film noir from the 1930s to the 1990s, connecting it to literary influences such as Simenon (though unfortunately authors like Sébastien Japrisot, Jean-Patrick Manchette, and some other important crime writers are not mentioned). The chapter on France under the Vichy regime is particularly interesting, showing how anyone could have been a collaborator with Nazi Germany — even your neighbor — which perfectly suited the claustrophobic feeling of film noir.

The book then follows the post-war period, the 1950s and 1960s, and the emergence of new directors like Godard, Chabrol, and Melville. While American film noir of the 1940s and 1950s had a strong influence, the author rightly emphasizes that the relationship was mutual, as many elements of American noir actually originated in French traditions, particularly poetic realism.

One of the book’s strengths is its explanation of how French film noir, beyond its remarkable visual style, also served as a critique of society. However, with the advent of television and technological progress, style gradually became an end in itself while content lost weight — as can be clearly seen in films like Luc Besson’s Nikita.

Overall, this is a very valuable book for any admirer of French crime cinema. If you enjoy it, it is also worth taking a look at Andrew Spicer’s European Film Noir, which provides a broader European context.

Gerald Kersh - Night And The City

Gerald Kersh (1912–1968) was an English writer of novels and short stories, partially famous during his lifetime but oddly forgotten and neglected after his death in poverty. In his youth, he held a variety of strange jobs, including working as a wrestler, which brought him into close contact with the London underworld. In his own words, the novels he had published up to that point “hadn’t really been fiction at all” and “contained an irreducible minimum of made-up stuff.”

During the Second World War, Kersh was severely injured during the Blitz — at one point he was buried alive three times — an experience that left him partially disabled. After the war, he moved to the United States, where he began writing articles as well as horror, science-fiction, detective stories, and novels, gaining recognition in both the USA and the UK.

Harlan Ellison later stated that Kersh was his favorite author. Writing to a fan, Ellison recommended Kersh by saying: “You will find yourself in the presence of a talent so immense and compelling that you will understand how grateful and humble I felt merely to have been permitted to associate myself with his name as editor.” Anthony Boucher likewise noted that Kersh was “incapable of writing a dull sentence.”

Today, Kersh is remembered (amongst others) for his novel Night and the City (loosely adapted into a film noir by Jules Dassin), which prompted me to write about it here — because I have rarely encountered a novel so relentlessly depressing and filthy, populated by characters so thoroughly rotten. Luckily, publisher London Books Classics reissued recently Night and the City with fine introduction by John King.

I expected some relatively easy noir reading, in the vein of David Goodis, but that was not the case here. Instead, the narrator throws us directly into the seedy world of London’s petty criminals and prostitutes, with Harry Fabian at its center — a figure so morally bankrupt that it is difficult to feel any sympathy for him.

Harry lives off his girlfriend Zoe, who prostitutes herself, and in one of the novel’s most unsettling episodes he stalks one of her customers, a lonely man whose wife is dying of cancer. After following him for some time, Harry finally confronts him in a Turkish bath and discovers documents in his coat revealing where he lives. He then visits the man’s home and blackmails him, demanding one hundred pounds in exchange for keeping his secret from his sick wife. The man can only produce fifty pounds, which Harry grudgingly accepts — enough, for the moment, to keep his schemes alive.

These schemes revolve around Harry’s attempt to establish a wrestling business, a venture driven more by desperation than by any real competence. Kersh’s sentences are long and dense, carefully describing each character while offering sharp, often merciless observations about human nature.

Alongside Harry, there is Vi, who works for the nightclub owner Nosseross, and her friend Helen. Vi persuades Helen — who initially appears innocent — to take a job at the nightclub. There is also Adam, perhaps the only genuinely decent character in the novel, who falls in love with Helen and reluctantly accepts work in the same corrupt environment.

Fabian, however, proves incapable of restraint. He quickly squanders the money he has obtained and is soon forced to look for more. One of the novel’s most tragic figures is the once-great wrestler Ali The Turk, an aging man who still believes he can fight one last battle despite his failing heart. Adam warns Fabian that the match may kill him, but Fabian ignores the warning. Ali wins the bout — and dies shortly afterward from a heart attack. I found this moment genuinely moving and deeply sad.

There is also Bert, Fabian’s brother, a hardworking fruit seller who repeatedly tries to pull Harry back from his downward spiral. In the end, Fabian is pursued by a deranged wrestler, recklessly gambles away what little money he has left, and is finally arrested after Zoe informs the police of his exploitation.

The only character who escapes this world with any dignity is Adam, who leaves the nightclub scene behind to pursue his true calling as a sculptor.

When compared to American noir writers such as James M. Cain, David Goodis, or Jim Thompson, Gerald Kersh feels markedly different. American noir, even at its darkest, often relies on speed, compression, and a certain brutal efficiency. The novels are short, the plots tight, and the prose stripped down to the bone. Kersh, on the other hand, allows his narrative to sprawl. He lingers over descriptions, moral observations, and the psychological decay of his characters.

Where Cain or Thompson often place us directly inside the mind of the criminal, Kersh keeps a certain distance, using an omniscient narrator who judges, observes, and exposes. This makes Night and the City less immediately gripping than many American noirs, but also more suffocating. There is no quick escape, no sharp punchline — only the slow accumulation of misery.

In Night and the City, the night is not merely a setting but a moral condition. Darkness does not simply cover London; it reveals it. The characters come alive only after sunset, when the city allows them to become what they truly are. When morning arrives, it brings no redemption — only anxiety, exhaustion, and the dread of returning to work and survival.

Fabian is not destroyed solely by society or circumstance but by his own nature. Kersh makes it clear that this is not a novel about an innocent man crushed by the system. Fabian is greedy, parasitic, and incapable of self-restraint. The city merely provides the stage on which his weaknesses are exposed. In this sense, Night and the City is less a crime novel than a study of self-destruction, one in which the night does not create monsters, but simply gives them room to move.

James M. Cain - The Complete Crime Stories

You may all know the essential noir film Double Indemnity, based on James M. Cain’s classic novel. But in The Complete Crime Stories, we finally get all of Cain’s shorter works collected in one place, with an insightful introduction by Otto Penzler.

Unlike Hammett, Chandler, or Ross Macdonald, Cain was essentially a noir writer in the sense that his fiction contains no private investigators—only flawed, unsympathetic protagonists who usually stumble into trouble, often involving a woman. It can be argued that his work reflects the anxieties and hardships of the Great Depression era.

Cain originally wanted to be a singer, but he didn’t have the voice for it. He turned instead to journalism, where he was noticed by H. L. Mencken, who helped launch his writing career. His essay Paradise is still admired by critics.

His other notable novels include The Postman Always Rings Twice, which inspired a landmark noir film, as well as Mildred Pierce, but Serenade and Love’s Lovely Counterfeit are also worth reading.

Cain was fundamentally a short-form writer. As Otto Penzler notes in the introduction, none of Cain’s novels run much longer than 150 pages, and Cain himself once wrote that the short story is far superior to the novel. He also remarked that one of the weaknesses of American fiction is its dependence on the “sympathetic hero.”

Cain wrote in simple, direct language, believing that prose should sound like the speech of ordinary people on the street. Because of this style, he was sometimes called a writer of “tabloid murder.”

This collection of stories is very strong overall, but two stand out as the best: - Carreer in C Major, is one of Cain’s most unusual crime stories—there is no murder, no insurance scam, no getaway plan. Instead, Cain writes about a frustrated man in a dull marriage whose wife is an amateur singer. When he meets another woman, a professional vocalist, she discovers that he has a surprisingly good natural voice. As she trains him, he rises from an ordinary, unnoticed man to someone who can hold his own on an opera stage. But this new talent creates tension and jealousy between the two women in his life, and Cain turns what could have been a simple musical tale into a sharp study of vanity, desire, and emotional conflict., and Money and the Woman (Embezzler),tells the story of a bank employee who gets drawn into a moral and romantic trap. When his colleague, in debt, falls ill, the colleague’s wife asks the protagonist to assist in resolving her husband’s financial troubles. As they scheme to recover the money, unaware of the dangers around them, the protagonist falls in love with her, all the while suspicious of her intentions. Cain explores jealousy, temptation, and the consequences of human weakness, leading to a tense climax where plans unravel, loyalties are tested, and violence erupts. The story captures Cain’s signature noir style: ordinary people, flawed decisions, and a sense of inevitability that makes every choice carry weight. Great story that is reminiscent in some way of Double Indemnity. All in all, this is great short story collection for all noir lovers. French writers recognized existential elements in Cain prose and he was one of the first writers to appear in Gallimard imprint of American crime novels Serie Noire.

The Leopard Man (1943)

The Leopard Man (1943) is one of the defining works of Val Lewton's production unit at RKO Pictures and a standout example of the way film noir and horror can blend into a unified genre. Directed by the master of suspense, Jacques Tourneur, and based on a short story by Cornell Woolrich, The Leopard Man stands as a significant work in both genres. It is a film where the eerie atmosphere of horror and the shadowy world of noir intersect, demonstrating how these two genres, though often distinct in tone and approach, can use similar thematic tools and stylistic techniques to evoke tension and fear.

A Noir-Horror Hybrid: Similarities in Tone and Method

At its core, The Leopard Man is a murder mystery with a chilling supernatural edge. The story revolves around a series of killings that seem to be the work of a leopard, but the audience is left to question whether the animal is responsible or if something far more sinister and human is behind the crimes. While this premise draws on the conventions of horror — the fear of the unknown, the supernatural, and the grotesque — it is fundamentally structured as a noir thriller. The film’s moody cinematography, tight framing, and characters driven by paranoia, guilt, and hidden motives are all staples of the noir tradition.

In film noir, crime and moral ambiguity are central, and in The Leopard Man, these themes are amplified by the horrific, almost dreamlike elements introduced through the serial killings. The tension is not only created by the possibility of a human killer lurking in the shadows but also by the looming fear that an unstoppable, wild force — symbolized by the leopard — is at play. Much like in classic noir films, the characters are trapped in a web of deceit, and the city itself, an essential element of many noirs, becomes a murky, threatening environment.

Jacques Tourneur’s Direction: Building Suspense Through Shadows

Tourneur, a director renowned for his mastery of suspense, plays a pivotal role in blending these genres. He is best known for his work with Val Lewton on several low-budget horror films that relied heavily on suggestion, atmosphere, and psychological tension rather than explicit horror. In The Leopard Man, Tourneur expertly uses the shadows and unseen forces, a hallmark of both noir and horror, to evoke an atmosphere of dread.

The film’s most famous sequence, involving the off-screen presence of the leopard and the horrifying off-screen deaths, is a perfect example of how Tourneur uses implied horror to create unease. The audience never fully sees the threat — the leopard is often only heard or seen in fleeting glimpses, which amplifies the tension in the same way that noir films often suggest moral corruption and violence without explicitly showing it. This technique mirrors the way noir films suggest danger lurking beneath the surface of everyday life, a theme that resonates deeply with the eerie unknowns in horror.

Val Lewton's Role: Merging Noir and Horror

As the producer of The Leopard Man, Val Lewton played a crucial role in shaping the film’s tone and blending elements of horror with the stylistic traits of noir. Lewton was known for his ability to craft psychological horror films that didn't rely on graphic violence or gore, but instead created a sense of dread and unease through atmosphere and suggestion. His work with Tourneur often centered on the idea that what is unseen is far more terrifying than what is shown — a philosophy that resonates with the ambiguity and existential dread of film noir.

Lewton’s films, including The Leopard Man, often explore the dark, hidden sides of human nature, which is a key characteristic of both noir and horror. In a typical noir film, characters are often motivated by greed, lust, or vengeance, leading them into morally dubious situations. In The Leopard Man, the horrors of the human mind — manifested in the disturbed characters, and the terrifying unknown presence of the leopard — serve as a reflection of these noir themes of isolation, fear, and the darkness within.

The Intersection of Genres: Horror and Noir as Complementary Forces

Though horror and noir are often treated as distinct genres, they share a great deal in common. Both are interested in the darker aspects of human experience: fear, violence, corruption, and the unknown. In The Leopard Man, these themes converge, with the horror of the leopard killings providing a backdrop to the noir world of deception and dread. Both genres rely on atmosphere, mood, and tension rather than overt action, and both frequently feature characters who are trapped in situations that seem inescapable, whether due to an external malevolent force (like a monster) or their own moral failings.

Moreover, the blending of noir and horror allows The Leopard Man to explore the psychological aspects of fear and anxiety in a unique way. Just as in classic noir, the characters in The Leopard Man are not simply victims of an external threat; they are also haunted by their own inner demons, guilty secrets, and fragile sense of self. This duality — the external horror and the internal conflict — creates a richer, more complex narrative than either genre could achieve on its own.

Conclusion: A Legacy of Suspense and Psychological Terror

The Leopard Man is a prime example of how noir and horror, when fused together, can create a film that is both deeply unsettling and thematically resonant. Directed by Jacques Tourneur and produced by Val Lewton, this film is a standout in the 1940s horror cycle, demonstrating the way psychological suspense, shadowy atmospheres, and complex characters can work in harmony to explore fear — both supernatural and psychological.

In this film, the boundaries between genres blur, and it’s clear that noir and horror are not so different after all. Both are concerned with the fragility of the human psyche, the dangers of the unknown, and the shadowy forces that drive people toward violence and destruction. Through its haunting visuals, suspenseful pacing, and moral ambiguity, The Leopard Man continues to stand as a fascinating exploration of how these genres can intertwine, creating a chilling experience that resonates long after the film ends.

Noir Thriller - Lee Horsley

As in her Companion to Crime Fiction, Lee Horsley’s Noir Thriller Crime Files division of Palgrave MacMillan is a deep dive into the world of noir, exploring its literature and film through a mix of historical, cultural, and stylistic perspectives. Horsley treats noir not just as a genre, but as a viewpoint—dark, morally complex, and rooted in the harsh realities of urban life.

The book is structured chronologically: it starts with early noir during the Great Depression Hammett, James M. Cain, Horace McCoy), moves through the Golden Age (1945–1970), covers the post-1970 era—including cyberpunk noir like Gibson’s Neuromancer—and ends with a short chapter on contemporary noir in the 2000s. My favorite part is the 1945–1970 section, where she highlights some of the most influential works that shaped the genre (Cornell Woolrich, Jim Thompson, Patricia Highsmith, David Goodis).

What works:

• Horsley gives a fresh perspective on the fatal woman in noir films, showing how cinematic portrayals often demonized women, while literary noir offered more nuanced and complex characters.

• The discussion of cyberpunk noir and questions of what it means to be human adds a modern, philosophical layer that’s really engaging.

Critiques:

• Sometimes her focus on extra-literary factors—like politics or social context—can distract from the stories themselves.

• The book covers so many works that a casual reader might feel overwhelmed, losing some of their personal connection to the novels.

• She mostly focuses on American and British noir, leaving out contributions from Europe, Japan, and other regions.

• One notable oversight: she labels Frankenstein as a science fiction novel, when it is more accurately a horror classic—a small but telling example of where her categorization feels off.

Overall, Noir Thriller is an excellent resource for serious noir fans. Its academic tone might not appeal to everyone, but for readers like me who love the genre, it offers insights, context, and new ways to think about classic and modern noir alike.

The Dark World Of David Goodis

Sorry I haven’t posted in a while — I had a few things to take care of.

I recently finished a collection of three David Goodis novels in one volume: Nightfall, Cassidy’s Girl, and Nightsquad published by Stark House. All of them are excellent, but what strikes me most about Goodis is that, although he was a pulp writer, his stories aren’t really plot-driven.

Goodis writes about losers — people who are defeated, broken, or caught in circumstances they can’t control. His characters aren’t heroes; they are flawed, vulnerable, often powerless. It’s not just about crime or action; it’s about the bleak, noir atmosphere that permeates every scene. 

Reading Goodis is like stepping into a world where everyone has fallen, where despair and failure are part of life — and yet it’s compelling, darkly beautiful, and utterly unforgettable.

Nightfall (adapted into a 1957 film directed by Jacques Tourneur) follows an ordinary man who finds himself at the wrong place at the wrong time — stopping in front of a wrecked getaway car used by bank robbers. From that moment, his life spirals out of control. Goodis masterfully builds tension and a sense of inevitability, showing how quickly normal life can be shattered.

Cassidy’s Girl is perhaps the most tragic of the three. The protagonist is a former pilot whose plane crashed, killing some people. Haunted by guilt, he sinks into alcoholism and spends his days in bars with other outcasts. He has a woman who betrays him, works as a bus driver, and suffers another accident similar to his plane crash, leaving multiple victims. The police pursue him, and the story ends ambiguously. Goodis paints a world where misfortune repeats itself, and escape seems impossible.

Nightsquad tells the story of a former cop fired for robbing ordinary people. The mob hires him to track down certain individuals, while at the same time a notorious police unit called the Night Squad rehires him. He finds himself trapped between two forces, morally conflicted, and constantly under pressure. The novel captures the sense of being caught in a system that offers no easy choices.

David Goodis passed away at the young age of 49, which is especially tragic considering the depth and talent he had as a noir writer. He had already produced a significant body of work, but one can only imagine how many more dark, compelling stories and unforgettable characters he could have created if he had lived longer. His early death adds a somber layer to his legacy, echoing the sense of loss, despair, and inevitability that permeates his novels.

Several of Goodis’s novels were adapted into films, further cementing his influence on noir cinema:

• Dark Passage (1947), starring Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall

• Nightfall (1957), directed by Jacques Tourneur

• The Moon in the Gutter (1983), directed by Jean-Jacques Beineix

• Shoot the Piano Player (1960), directed by François Truffaut

These films translate Goodis’s signature mood and flawed characters to the screen, allowing his bleak, noir vision to reach a wider audience.

The French audience appreciated Goodis because his prose is deeply psychological and melancholic, and his characters are true reflections of human weakness, defeat, and despair. Unlike classic American crime novels, in Goodis’s work, it’s not the detective mystery or action that takes center stage, but the atmosphere, inner sadness, and moral ambiguity.

The French have always had a particular taste for dark, introspective, and stylized stories, which perfectly matched Goodis’s noir world. His protagonists are often unable to save themselves, and the world around them is cold and unforgiving, which the French found both fascinating and artistically valuable.

Cornell Woolrich - The Bride Wore Black

 

Cornell Woolrich’s The Bride Wore Black (1940) remains one of the most haunting works of noir fiction, a chilling exploration of grief, obsession, and vengeance. Often described as a “poet of loss,” Woolrich opens his saga of death and desire with a deceptively simple premise: a beautiful woman methodically hunts down a group of men, killing them one by one. What begins as a series of mysterious murders slowly reveals a devastating backstory that transforms the narrative into a meditation on fate and retribution.

This edition, published as part of Otto Penzler Presents American Mystery Classics, features an insightful introduction by Eddie Muller, the so-called “Czar of Noir.” Muller situates the novel within the larger context of Woolrich’s career and the noir tradition, pointing out how Woolrich’s sense of doom and fatalism shaped not only crime literature but also the film noir movement. His preface highlights how The Bride Wore Black anticipates the cinematic qualities of noir—its shadows, its obsession with femme fatales, and its inevitable sense of tragedy.

Reading Woolrich today, one feels the raw intensity of his prose. The episodic structure builds suspense with each successive killing, while the emotional core—the grief driving the “bride”—keeps the novel from being a simple revenge thriller. Instead, it becomes an unsettling character study, a dance with destiny where every step feels both inevitable and terrifying.

The Bride Wore Black is more than a crime novel; it is a work that shaped noir storytelling in both literature and film. Muller’s introduction frames it as an essential starting point for anyone wishing to understand the darkness at the heart of American noir.

James Ellroy - L.A. Confidential

James Ellroy’s L.A. Confidential is a sprawling, hard-edged crime epic that plunges the reader into the murky depths of 1950s Los Angeles — a city glittering with Hollywood glamour on the surface, but rotten to the core underneath.

The novel follows three very different LAPD officers:

• Ed Exley, an ambitious, calculating climber determined to rise through the ranks, no matter the cost.

• Bud White, a brutal enforcer with a personal vendetta against men who abuse women.

• Jack Vincennes, a celebrity cop who trades integrity for fame and publicity.

Their separate investigations — a mass murder at the “Nite Owl” diner, a scandal involving a murdered young actor, and the rise of a new criminal syndicate — gradually converge into a tangled web of police corruption, organized crime, political manipulation, and personal betrayal.

Ellroy’s style is uncompromising: terse, staccato sentences, a relentless pace, and a refusal to spoon-feed the reader. The plot is deliberately complex, demanding close attention. Characters are morally ambiguous, shifting between heroism and villainy, which makes them feel real — but also unpredictable.

The climax is intense and bloody, exposing the true power players in Los Angeles, yet Ellroy avoids a neat resolution. Justice is partial, and some villains remain untouched. The death of Exley’s father, an influential police captain, adds a personal dimension to the corruption scandal, forcing Ed to confront his own values.

At over 500 pages, L.A. Confidential is not a quick read, but it rewards patience with a rich, multi-layered story. It’s more than just a crime novel — it’s a grim portrait of ambition, loyalty, and the moral compromises that shape a city.

A brutal, brilliantly constructed noir masterpiece. Not for the faint-hearted, but essential for anyone who appreciates crime fiction at its most uncompromising.

Walter de la Mare: Master of the Mysterious and the Unseen

Walter de la Mare (1873–1956) was an English poet, short story writer, and novelist, best known for his ability to evoke a haunting and mysterious atmosphere in his works. His writing often explores the boundary between reality and the supernatural, creating subtle, dreamlike moods that linger long after reading.

De la Mare’s stories frequently delve into themes of childhood innocence, the uncanny, and the hidden depths beneath everyday life. His mastery lies not in overt horror, but in suggestion — his tales often leave much to the imagination, stirring unease through what is implied rather than explicitly shown.

One of his most celebrated works, The Return, exemplifies his style: a poetic and eerie narrative that captures the sensation of something just beyond reach, a presence that is both familiar and unsettling. His poems, too, range from gentle and lyrical to dark and enigmatic, often appealing to both children and adults.

Though not always widely recognized during his lifetime compared to some of his contemporaries, Walter de la Mare’s influence is undeniable, especially among writers interested in atmospheric and psychological horror. His work remains a rich source of inspiration for those who appreciate literature that dances on the edge of the seen and the unseen.

If you enjoy stories that blend subtle terror with poetic grace, Walter de la Mare is an essential author to explore.

Ivan Goncharov and the Enduring Legacy of Oblomov

 

Ivan Alexandrovich Goncharov (1812–1891) holds a unique place in Russian literature as the creator of one of its most unforgettable characters—Oblomov. Born in Simbirsk (now Ulyanovsk) into a wealthy merchant family, Goncharov was well-educated, graduating from Moscow State University before working as a government translator and censor. Despite a relatively small literary output, his novels—particularly Oblomov (1859)—have had a profound and lasting influence.

Oblomov tells the story of Ilya Ilyich Oblomov, a nobleman who embodies lethargy and passivity to the extreme. Much of the book’s early chapters take place with the protagonist lying in bed, unable to summon the will to face the world. The novel became such a cultural touchstone that the term “Oblomovism” (Oblomovshchina) entered the Russian language, describing a fatalistic inertia, a refusal to act even when action is necessary.

While Oblomov can be read as a satire of the Russian aristocracy’s decay, it is also a deeply human exploration of fear, comfort, and the resistance to change. Goncharov’s subtle irony and psychological insight elevate the work far above simple caricature.

Although Goncharov wrote other novels—A Common Story (1847) and The Precipice (1869)—it is Oblomov that secured his place in literary history. He died in St. Petersburg in 1891, but the figure of Oblomov continues to resonate, not just in Russia but wherever people recognize the temptation of inaction.

The novel appeared during a period when Russian literature was dominated by the intellectual vigor of Ivan Turgenev and the moral and psychological intensity of Fyodor Dostoevsky. Where Turgenev’s heroes wrestled with reformist ideas, and Dostoevsky’s protagonists plunged into existential and spiritual crises, Oblomov was their antithesis: passive, dream-bound, and almost willfully detached from history’s currents. This contrast made the book both a pointed social commentary and a quiet rebellion against the prevailing literary ethos.

Modern readers often find in Oblomov an early prototype of the “anti-hero”—a character who rejects conventional measures of success, action, and ambition. In this way, Goncharov can be seen as an unexpected precursor to 20th-century figures in literature who resist, drift, or deliberately fail to meet societal expectations.

Though Goncharov himself led a relatively quiet life—working as a censor, traveling abroad, and rarely courting public scandal—his creation continues to provoke debate: Is Oblomov a tragic victim of his circumstances, a satire of the Russian gentry, or an oddly noble soul refusing to compromise his inner world? The ambiguity is part of what makes Oblomov endure.

Cultural Impact and Adaptations of Oblomov

Oblomov has inspired numerous adaptations, including films, theater productions, and even operas, highlighting its lasting relevance. The most famous film adaptation is the 1980 Soviet film Oblomov, directed by Nikita Mikhalkov, which brought renewed attention to Goncharov’s themes for a modern audience.

Throughout the 20th century and beyond, Oblomov has remained a powerful symbol in Russian culture, representing not just the archetype of lethargy but also a critique of societal stagnation and the struggle between tradition and progress. Its influence extends into contemporary literature and discussions about identity, action, and alienation, maintaining its place as a classic that continues to resonate with readers worldwide.

Flannery O’Connor: The Gothic Voice of the American South

 

Flannery O’Connor (1925–1964) remains one of the most distinctive voices in 20th-century American literature. Though she died young at the age of 39 from complications of lupus, her output — two novels and two collections of short stories — left an outsized mark on modern fiction.

Writing in the Southern Gothic tradition, O’Connor filled her work with morally complex characters, grotesque situations, and sudden, often violent turns of fate. Her Catholic faith infused her stories with an undercurrent of theological tension, exploring grace, sin, and redemption in ways that could be both unsettling and darkly humorous.

Her most famous works include the novels Wise Blood (1952), about an eccentric preacher wrestling with faith and doubt, and The Violent Bear It Away (1960), a rural tale of prophecy and destiny. But it’s her short stories that secured her place in the literary canon: “A Good Man Is Hard to Find” is a chilling yet oddly comic confrontation with violence, while “Everything That Rises Must Converge” dissects racial and generational conflict in the changing South.

Though not a crime writer in the conventional sense, O’Connor’s fiction often pivots on acts of brutality, moral corruption, and human weakness — making her work oddly appealing to readers who enjoy noir sensibilities. Her worlds are populated with con men, drifters, outcasts, and the morally compromised, all sketched with biting precision and unflinching irony.

O’Connor once said, “The truth does not change according to our ability to stomach it.” Her stories still challenge readers to confront uncomfortable truths, wrapped in prose as sharp as a knife and as strange as the American South itself.