Bloody Murder is a useful reference book, but Julian Symons often comes across as rambling, jumping from one topic to another. What stands out most is his clear preference for puzzle novels and the classic British tradition, while writers such as Cornell Woolrich, Jim Thompson, and David Goodis are largely dismissed or marginalized, and Lionel White is not even mentioned. Despite these flaws, Bloody Murder remains a useful book for more advanced students of crime fiction.
Another writer known for his short stories aside from novels is Cornell Woolrich, a reclusive and somewhat elusive figure whose paranoid fiction helped shape the noir tradition as we know it today.
There are many collections of Cornell Woolrich’s stories, as he was a prolific writer, but I chose this particular volume from Centipede Press — a high-quality edition with striking illustrations by Mat Mahurin and an insightful introduction by Thomas C. Renzi, author of Cornell Woolrich: From Pulp Noir to Film Noir. The book contains fifteen stories, the most famous of which is Rear Window, famously adapted into a film by Alfred Hitchcock.
The introduction provides a useful entry point into Woolrich’s world, characterising his stories as “momentum narratives,” where a single mistake sets off an irreversible chain of events leading to ruin. It also highlights key aspects of his prose: a fatalistic sense of destiny from which the protagonist cannot escape, the instability of perception, and the use of ironic, double-reversal twists in the tradition of O. Henry.
Two of the stories in this collection I had already encountered in various anthologies — Dusk to Dawn and Wardrobe Trunk. Among the remaining pieces, several stand out. Rear Window is of course the most famous, later adapted by Alfred Hitchcock into a classic film. Marihuana is a striking story about a man who becomes psychologically unhinged under the influence of the drug, culminating in a strong twist ending. Post Mortem is another effective piece, while The Death of Me is an excellent identity-switch narrative in which a killer assumes the identity of a dead man.
The Night Reveals is a solid entry, and Three O’Clock is particularly strong — a tightly constructed story of a man planning to murder his wife, only to fall into a trap of his own making. Finger of Doom and The Corpse Next Door are more modest, but still engaging. The strongest story in the collection, however, is Speak to Me of Death: a hallucinatory nightmare that was later reworked into the novel Night Has a Thousand Eyes and adapted into a notable noir film.
What stands out across these stories is a distinctly pulpy style — less concerned with the detailed character work found in writers like Stanley Ellin, and more focused on momentum, situation, and suspense. Yet despite that relative lack of psychological depth, the stories remain highly engaging, tightly constructed, and often genuinely thrilling.
Overall, this is an excellent collection — though perhaps not one to be read late at night.
Crime fiction is generally better suited to the novel than to the short story, which is why it’s always refreshing to come across those rare writers who built their reputation primarily on short fiction. That is certainly the case with Stanley Ellin and his collection The Specialty of the House.
I had already encountered some of his work in various anthologies — You Can’t Be a Little Girl All Your Life, The Nine to Five Man, and The Question. The stories collected here are often quite strange. For example, The Orderly World of Mr. Appleby follows a man obsessed with his antique shop, while Broker’s Special is another standout, along with The Blessington Method, Day of the Bullet, and several others.
As H. R. F. Keating noted, Ellin’s stories are “enormously varied in plot and setting, linked first by clarity of style, and second by a fascinatingly bizarre view of the world and its people.”
But while these stories are generally well written, they seem to lack the kind of passion and obsession that reveal the writer’s soul.
The Crime Masterworks edition is well produced in hardcover, with an attractive dust jacket and an introduction written by Ellin himself.
I like good classic English whodunits, although there are very few of them. This 1983 novel was a pleasant surprise.
Although it’s written in the style of the 1920s, it actually plays with the genre itself. It is based on the real-life case of Dr. Crippen, but the story follows Baranov, a dentist, and his wife Lydia, who plans to travel to America to try her luck in films. Things become complicated when Baranov meets Alma, a somewhat eccentric girl who sees the world through the lens of romantic novels. She falls in love with him, and together they devise a plan to kill Lydia and throw her into the river.
However, another murder occurs on the ship. Baranov, traveling under the false name Walter Dew, is mistakenly taken for the famous inspector. The ship’s captain accepts him as an authority and asks him to lead the investigation.
This is where the novel becomes truly interesting—not because of the question “who is the killer,” but because of how a man, simply through his behavior and confidence, manages to convince everyone around him that he is someone else.
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I watched the French film One Deadly Summer starring Isabelle Adjani and it stayed with me. There’s something about that story that doesn’t let go, a quiet unease that lingers long after it ends.
So I looked up the novel of the same name by Sébastien Japrisot.
As you may have known, it's a story of a young girl Elle who seeks revenge on three men that raped her mother years ago in one winter day.
The first half of the novel is very good. The atmosphere is dense, the characters feel real, and the story moves in a direction that promises a lot. There’s that slow, summery feeling with something dark underneath.
But as the novel goes on, it becomes strange. As if it starts to fall apart from within.
It increasingly feels like this is not just a story about one girl, but about a tragedy passed down from generation to generation. Something that cannot be avoided, only repeated.
The saddest part is what happens to Elle. It’s as if she retreats back into childhood, losing touch with reality, until she eventually ends up in a mental institution.
In the end, it feels like everything was predetermined.
With White Jazz, the final entry in the L.A. Quartet, James Ellroy pushes his experimental style to the extreme.
The fragmented prose, already present in the earlier books, becomes almost overwhelming here. Sentences are cut, thoughts are compressed, and the narrative often feels chaotic and disjointed. At times, it works. At other times, it feels forced and unnecessarily psychedelic.
The plot revolves around Dave Klein investigating a break-in connected to a deeply disturbed family. The father is a major drug dealer, the daughter is a prostitute, and the son appears to be obsessively attached to her. This alone creates a sense of moral decay that is typical of Ellroy, but the novel doesn’t stop there.
Another subplot follows a runaway actress connected to Howard Hughes, portrayed here as a deeply unwell figure. She ends up acting in a low-budget film produced by Mickey Cohen, who is depicted as a fallen man reduced to working with alcoholics and fringe figures. These elements add to the sense of a collapsing world, where everyone is compromised and nothing feels stable.
As the novel progresses, the narrative becomes increasingly difficult to follow. Characters blur together, motivations become unclear, and it often feels like no one fully understands what they are doing — including the reader. The story turns into a kind of fever dream, driven more by sensation than by logic.
This is Ellroy at his most extreme: dirty, chaotic, and completely unrestrained. For some readers, this will be the ultimate expression of his style. For others, it may feel like excess without control.
In the end, White Jazz is less a traditional crime novel and more a descent into narrative breakdown — a book where structure collapses under the weight of its own intensity.
Out of all the novels in L.A. Quartet, The Big Nowhere is the one that impressed me the most.
The novel opens with a notorious wave of anti-communist witch hunting in America. This storyline, investigated by Malcolm Considine, is interesting in itself, especially once Buzz Meeks enters the picture. Still, for me, this is not the true core of the novel.
The heart of the book lies in the investigation of a serial killer, followed by Danny Upshaw. His character stood out the most. Not only because of the disturbing and brutal nature of the murders, but also because of the way his personal life slowly collapses as he becomes entangled in both the homicide case and the anti-communist purge.
Upshaw is a tragic figure. His involvement in the investigation of communist organizations only deepens his internal conflict, leading to an inevitable and devastating end. Ellroy builds his character with a sense of doom that feels unavoidable from the very beginning.
Reading James Ellroy is like stepping into a filthy bar late at night — a place filled with outcasts, criminals, corrupt policemen, and constant noise. There is no comfort, no elegance, only decay and tension. The prose is fragmented, aggressive, and relentless, pulling the reader deeper into a world where morality is blurred and violence is everywhere.
What makes The Big Nowhere effective is not just its plot, but its atmosphere. Ellroy doesn’t suggest darkness — he throws you into it. The novel is crowded with characters and subplots, but at its best, it delivers moments of pure noir intensity, especially through Upshaw’s storyline.
Even if Ellroy’s style can become exhausting, this novel shows him at his strongest: obsessive, chaotic, and completely uncompromising.
I grew accustomed to reading Lionel White as a writer of heist novels about doomed men. His characters are usually trapped in situations where everything is carefully planned, yet there is always a sense that things will fall apart. Still, as a reader, I keep hoping that their schemes will somehow prevail.
Too Young to Die offers an interesting variation on this formula. At its center is a heist mastermind who unexpectedly falls in love with a young girl. This emotional element gives the novel a different tone and, at times, it reminded me of those paranoid crime stories from the 1970s, where relationships are fragile and constantly threatened by violence and distrust.
To cut the story short, the plan inevitably collapses. During a shootout, the girl is wounded and later dies in a remote hideaway, while the protagonist ends up surrounded by relentless, almost western-like lawmen. The final act has a fatalistic quality that feels both inevitable and fitting, reinforcing White’s recurring theme: no matter how clever the plan, the outcome is already sealed.
The second novel, The Time of Terror, is also strong, though in a different way. It follows a man who has lost everything — his job, his family — and decides to kidnap a young boy. The premise is simple, but effective, driven more by desperation than calculation. As in many of White’s works, the tension comes not from elaborate plotting but from watching a man unravel under pressure.
What makes White stand out is his ability to combine straightforward prose with a persistent sense of doom. Unlike more stylistically ambitious writers, he doesn’t rely on atmosphere or psychological introspection as much, but he understands structure and pacing. His novels move quickly, yet always toward the same destination: failure.
In that sense, White delivers exactly what I expect from him — stories about men who plan, hope, and act, only to discover that their fate was decided long before the first move.
When I first heard about Harry Whittington, he was often mentioned alongside the great pulp and noir writers of the 1950s. His name appeared in Stark House reprints and in discussions about forgotten crime fiction authors who supposedly deserved rediscovery. Naturally, I expected something raw, atmospheric, maybe in the tradition of David Goodis or Charles Willeford.
After reading the Stark House edition containing Ticket to Hell and Hell Can Wait, I was surprised – and not in a good way.
Ticket to Hell starts with an intriguing premise: a drifter arrives at a remote motel and saves a young woman from her violent boyfriend who seems ready to kill her. This setup suggests a tense, morally ambiguous noir story. However, the novel quickly shifts into something much more conventional when it is revealed that the protagonist is actually working for the FBI and is on a mission to rescue a kidnapped boy. What begins as a potentially gritty, personal story turns into a predictable crime thriller filled with clichés and familiar plot turns.
The second novel, Hell Can Wait, follows a man who plans revenge against the driver responsible for a car accident that killed his wife. Revenge stories are a staple of crime fiction, but here the execution feels mechanical and uninspired. The characters lack psychological depth, and the plot unfolds in the most expected way possible, without the moral complexity or stylistic flair that defines the best noir fiction.
What disappointed me most was not just the use of clichés, but the overall flatness of the prose. Where writers like Goodis or Woolrich create atmosphere through mood, desperation, and poetic bleakness, Whittington’s writing in these two novels feels functional and rushed, as if produced to meet a deadline rather than to tell a compelling story. The dialogue is serviceable but rarely memorable, and the emotional stakes never feel fully real.
This is not to say that Whittington had no talent or that all of his work is without merit. Like many pulp writers of his era, he wrote quickly and prolifically, often under pressure from publishers. In that sense, he can be seen more as a professional craftsman than an artist. Still, based on Ticket to Hell and Hell Can Wait, it is difficult to place him in the same category as the truly distinctive voices of mid-century crime fiction.
Stark House deserves credit for keeping these books in print, as they provide a window into the vast landscape of mid-century pulp publishing. But as literature, these two novels serve more as historical curiosities than as forgotten masterpieces waiting to be rediscovered.
For readers exploring classic noir today, Whittington might be of interest for completists or for those curious about the broader pulp ecosystem. However, those looking for the emotional intensity of Goodis, the psychological precision of Highsmith, or the stylistic elegance of Chandler may find these novels surprisingly hollow.
In the end, reading Ticket to Hell and Hell Can Wait was a useful reminder that not every rediscovered pulp author is an overlooked genius. Sometimes, a hack is simply a hack – and even that has its place in the history of crime fiction.
Charles Willeford is often described as a kind of “Philip K. Dick of crime fiction.” Just as Philip K. Dick created strange, off-kilter worlds in science fiction, Willeford brings bizarre situations and unusual characters into the crime novel, often subverting the expectations of the genre.
The series about detective Hoke Moseley is particularly interesting in that respect.
Miami Blues is perhaps the best-known novel in the series, largely because of the unforgettable villain Frederick Junior Frenger. He is one of those criminals who seems completely unpredictable and dangerous, which gives the novel both energy and dark humor.
New Hope for the Dead was somewhat less interesting to me. Much of the plot revolves around old unsolved cases that Moseley has to reopen, and the pace therefore feels slower than in the first novel.
I liked Sideswipe the most. The premise itself is unusual: Moseley suddenly decides to move into a hotel run by his father in order to get away from everything for a while. At the same time another storyline unfolds involving a bizarre group of characters planning a supermarket robbery: a psychopathic small-time criminal, a confused retiree who no longer knows what to do with his life, a prostitute with a disfigured face, and a Black painter. This strange combination of characters gives the novel an almost grotesque tone.
The Way We Die Now is also good, particularly because of Moseley’s undercover assignment and the interesting character of a former convict who, after being released from prison, moves into a house across the street from him.
What I would criticize is Willeford’s somewhat dry writing style. Also, the edition I read from Orion Books is a paperback, which is not ideal for a book of more than 800 pages—something of that length would have been much better in hardcover.
I had high expectations from European Film Noir by Andrew Spicer, hoping for a broad and illuminating exploration of noir across the continent. Instead, the book mostly confirmed something I was already aware of: outside France, the European noir landscape is relatively limited.
The chapters on Germany, Spain, and Italy underline how few fully realized noir films emerged from those countries. While this may be historically accurate, it makes the study feel somewhat thin. The section on French noir is solid, but for anyone already familiar with the major films and critical discussions, it offers little that feels new or revelatory.
Another drawback is the book’s visual presentation. For a study devoted to a highly stylized cinematic form, it contains surprisingly few photographs. The overall design is rather plain and unattractive, which is disappointing in a book about a visually driven genre.
In the end, European Film Noir works better as an introductory academic survey than as a visually rich or groundbreaking reassessment of the genre. For readers already immersed in noir history, it may feel more dutiful than exciting.
Death in a Tenured Position is a crime novel written by Amanda Cross, the pseudonym of literature professor Carolyn Heilbrun.
The novel tells the story of the first woman to receive a tenured position at a formerly all-male college. Instead of triumph, she is met with indifference, passive aggression, and institutional coldness. The mystery element is present, but atmosphere dominates — a pervasive sense of isolation, academic vanity, and quiet cruelty. In the end, it is revealed that her death was not a murder but a suicide, which casts the entire narrative in a darker and more unsettling light.
Heilbrun herself was a distinguished scholar and feminist critic who taught for many years at Columbia University. Throughout her academic career, she spoke openly about the subtle and overt discrimination women faced within universities, particularly in elite institutions that were slow to accept women as intellectual equals. Under the name Amanda Cross, she used detective fiction not only as entertainment but as a vehicle to explore gender politics, professional exclusion, and the emotional cost of institutional resistance.
Late in life, Heilbrun chose to end her own life at the age of seventy-seven. While it would be simplistic to read the novel as autobiographical, the themes of isolation, aging, autonomy, and the pressures placed upon accomplished women inevitably resonate more strongly in light of her personal history.
Sedeo sam sa mojim drugarom detektivom u restoranu i slušao njegov izveštaj pokušaja otmice male Emili. Gangsteri su bežali od policije tokom pljačke banke i videvši malu Emili pokušali da je otmu i ucene njene bogate roditelje. Priča mu je bila malo nepovezana pošto smo i ja i on bili pijani.
-Slušaj, Čede. Evo kako je bilo.
-Probudio sam se u pola sedam uveče, sa osrednjom glavoboljom. Soba je bila zamračena, roletne spuštene. Ljudi koji pate od glavobolja su osetljivi na svetlost. Pišalo mi se. Kurac je bio čvrst i topao. Uzeo sam kafetin sa noćnog stočića i flašu tople vode, i popio ga. Jedan kafetin je dovoljan. Nosio sam gaće marke „Hugo-Boss“, sive boje. Izvadio sam kurac i počeo da ga drkam. Omirisao sam svoje prste, spustio pljuvačku na njih, i nastavio da drkam. Usmeravao sam svoje misli ka postizanju vrhunca, i naposletku svršio. Jedna peruška mi je pala na butinu, dunuo sam i oterao je, ali se ona ponovo vratila. Zagledao sam se malo u procep na roletni kroz koji je proticao zrak sunca, raznosio prašinu i ustajali vazduh, i padao na moju butinu, osvetljavajući linije sperme koje su curile niz nju. Ustao sam i navukao papuče, otišao da pišam. Napolju se mogla čuti graja dece. Penzioneri su šetali. Dok sam pišao, slušao sam moju malu komšinicu kako vežba pevanje kroz zid kupatila. Pritisnuo sam vodokotlić koji je zagušio njeno pevanje i napustio kupatilo. Kroz par trenutaka pevanje se ponovo počelo dizati. Podjoh u kuhinju da skuvam kafu. Voleo sam 3 u 1. Kad sam skuvao kafu, podigao sam roletne jednim potezom i pustio svetlo u sobu. Iako sam spavao tek tri sata nisam se osećao umoran. Seo sam na terasu, srknuo kafu i zapalio cigaretu. Malo sam se prodrhtao, zgrčio pa opustio. Uzeo sam moj plavi durbin i uperio ga u susednu zgradu. Gledao sam moje susede uveličavajućim durbinom, praksa koju sam upražnjavao od rane mladosti. U jednom stanu je goreo požar, ljudi su uzbudjeno vikali, a ispred zgrade se okupila masa ljudi. Ubrzo su stigla vatrogasna kola. Starci su žučno negodovali zbog nepažnje stanara.
-Ništa ne paze, ti ljudi! Jedna neugašena cigareta, i ode sve u kurac!
Njegov prijatelj se složio sa starčevim mišljenjem, i njih dvoje nastaviše šetnju gledajući u zemlju. Sa moje terase se pružao lep pogled koji se protezao ka horizontu i gubio u suncu i oblacima. I tako, spuštala se noć. Bio sam nadasve u nekakvom ushićenju. Naoblačilo se i poče tiha grmljavina. Glavobolja je neprimetno prestala, kao dlanom ruke odnešena. Hladan letnji vetar poče strujati kroz vazduh, i ja ga udisah. Uvek osetim priliv čudnog zadovoljstva kad me prestane glavobolja. Sevnu munja. Puče grom i pade jaka kiša. Noć je već potpuno preuzela smenu, i nikoga više nije bilo na ulicama, osim jedne žene koja je trčala pokrivajući se jaknom i vodeći svoje dete za ruku. Posmatrao sam mokro lelujavo drveće i saobraćajne znakove. Pored puta se nalazila jedna stara kafana. Kroz durbin sam unutra ugledao neke ljude što piju pivo i prevlače rukama po bradi, dok je svirala stara narodna muzika harmonike. Sve je bilo tako tiho i nepomično, osim jedne kese koju je nosio vetar. Bacio sam pikavac kroz terasu, i povukao se u svoju sobu. Uzeo sam malo hleba sa sirom. Posle sam skuvao crnu kafu. Pokušavao sam malo da radim, da se nečim bavim. Ali nisam mogao. Mislio sam na moju Anabelu. Seo sam na pod prekrštenih nogu i gledao njene fotografije. Srknuo sam malo kafe crne kao noćno more, i upalio kompjuter, i pustio neku tihu muziku, koja se mešala sa udarcima kišnih kapi. Oko mene su bili mnogi ispisani papiri, drveni čiviluk, sto, stolica. Pepeljara. Ipak, smogao sam snage da pročitam nekoliko stranica uz božju pomoć. Blizu mog mesta se nalazila pruga, pa sam često slušao vozove. Ali odjednom začuh nečije korake u hodniku zgrade. Podigoh glavu i skočih pažljivo do vrata, saguvši se i izbacivši zadnjicu nazad a gornji deo tela napred, pogledah kroz špijunku. Neki čovek se spuštao na moj sprat izbijajući iz tame, i naglo se okrenuvši tako da mu ne videh lice, stao ukopan, kao razmišljajući. Onda nastavi da silazi. Odem na terasu da ga vidim kako izlazi, i vidim, prestala kiša, udahnem svež vazduh. Čovek izidje iz zgrade i podje levo ulicom ka centru, kako mi se učinilo, krsteći se. Bilo je 12 sati. Gde li ide? Vratih se u sobu i dugo razmišljah o tome. Reših da se bacim pod tuš, i vrela voda mi išuri telo. Legnem u krevet i brzo zaspih, i sanjah Anabelu, ali vrlo nejasno.
Sutradan sam ustao malo ranije, jer sam očekivao poštara. Opet nije došao. Ponovo glavobolja. Nestalo mi je kafetina, pa sam uzeo prašak protiv bolova. On se sipa u čašu vode, promeša i popije, ali je ukus neprijatan. Mrzovolja me obuhvati. Neko mi pozvoni na vrata, neka žena.
-Dobar dan, skupljamo novac za decu bez roditeljskog staranja. Samo 50 vaših dinara je dovoljno da izvuče osmejak jednom detetu.
-Nisam u mogućnosti.
Zatvorim joj vrata. Ko zna koliko je usamljenih starica prevarila ta narkomanka. Ona im dolazi i po više puta, ali starice je zaborave, pa misle da je neka nova. Pozvoni mi telefon.
-Halo?
-Gde si, Pušinski! Boris ovde.
-A, ti si.
-Hoćeš u grad?
-Hoću.
Spustio sam slušalicu, i zagledao se u persijski tepih. Boris je bio moj stari drug, još iz mladjih dana. Još od onda. Koliko je prošlo od tada? Koliko istovetnih, suvih dana, provedenih u istoj sobi? Koliko popijenih kafa, pogleda u prazno, pročitanih novina, televizijskih programa? Pet godina nisam izlazio nikuda. Ponovo me je obuzeo stari poznati osećaj, grešan i lep. Lepo je uneti malo promene. Posle toliko godina. Naravno, ni ovako nije loše. Nema više trzanja. Ali nema više ni onog drugog. Naučio sam se mirnom življenju, bez trzanja, mirnoći. Ništa me više ne može potresti. Pa ni ovaj poziv. Živim uz minimum neophodnosti, kao monah. Pogledao sam moju neurednu sobu. Danas je osetno svežije, 14 stepeni. Taman za moj svileni crni kaput. Iznad kamina je visio zidni sat, a iznad njega portret moga pokojnog oca, koji je bacao senku duž crvenog tepiha i crnog zida ukrašenog zelenim zavesama. Odjednom se prisetih kako sam kao mali ležao sa majkom, pio med i mleko i posmatrao igru senki na plafonu od gradskih svetala, lica u zavesama, svega toga. Pogledao sam kroz prozor i video mog bibliotekara kako šeta, uzvrpoljio se i odmaknuo. Blizu mog mesta se nalazio auto-put. Prodjoše kola.
Izašao sam na sporedni izlaz i uputio se ka taksi-stanici, krckajući opalo jesenje lišće. Pozdravio sam moga komšiju. Moj trenutni smeštaj mi je odgovarao, udaljen, a blizak gradu. Boris je hteo da se sretnemo na Dorćolu, ali ja nisam hteo, zato što sam tamo rodjen. Predložio sam da se vidimo kod Crkve Svetog Marka. U prolazu do taksija sam video gradjevinsko zemljište. Gradili su novu zgradu. Krenuli smo brzo, proticali su prizori. Male kućice nanizane jedna pored druge, opasane ogradicama, tik uz prometnu ulicu, pored njih zgradurine, pa neke uvale, prodavnice, mega-marketi, tržni centri, razvaline, smećišta, mostovi, tuneli, podzemni prolazi, betonske konstrukcije, uspavani soliteri, stotinu čudesa. Prolaznici, kontejneri, klošari. Prodjosmo luku. Čekao sam Borisa 10 minuta, kasnio je, vragolan. Prema njemu sam bio dobar, jer iako je u suštini bio mentol, bio mi je simpatičan. Bio je niži od mene, velikog nosa, lica kao u pacova, ali širokih ramena. Najzad dodje. Pričali smo malo, ali sadržajno. Pošto sam zapalio sveću u crkvi za pokoj duše, otišli smo po travu, i seli u park. Preko puta nas su sedela dva momka i gledala nas. Boris je motao travu.
-Borise, šta nas gledaju ovi?
-Ja mislim da i oni motaju.
-Hahaha! Sad im je čudno što i mi motamo.
Boris smota i zapali džoint, povuče par dimova, i predade meni. Popušimo mi džoint, kad oni tipovi krenuše ka nama.
-Momci, samo da vam kažemo, videli smo nekog tipa u plavom, tu iza parka.
-Ajde da idemo, Borise.
Uhvati nas neka panika, i mi odemo iz parka na ulicu koja vodi u sportski centar „Milan Gale Muškatirović“. Ja bacim pogled na ono dvoje, kad, oni seli na našu klupu.
-Borise, da nisu ovi namerno rekli da su videli pandura da bi nas oterali i seli na našu klupu?
-Hahaha!
Trava nas je uhvatila, i krenuli smo trotoarom, u lice vetru, ka dunavskom keju, gore. Jedan autobus koji je išao ka nama skrenu ulevo. Mi ga shvatismo kao živo biće. Išli smo naizgled bez cilja, i došli smo do reke. Stajao sam i gledao u ogledalo svetlucave, nemirne reke. U reci je bila ukopana olupina starog, zardjalog broda koja tu leži trideset godina. Unutra se noću skupljaju klošari i narkomani, ludaci, i pale vatre. Oko broda je reka bila crna i mutna. Lepo je unutra, i šteta što brod ne radi. Boris poče pričati kako vidi skrivene dimenzije prostora i vremena. Naravno, perturbacije i iskrivljenja su moguća. Često smo pričali o izmenjenom doživljaju vremene i prostora pod uticajem droga, o uplivu. Pozvali smo Duleta da dodje. On je bio veoma namučen momak. Bio je nizak i krupan, nabijen. Imao je nešto dečje u sebi, i ranjeno. Motali smo drugi džoint, kad on dodje. I odmah je počeo da lupeta. Video je Isusa, vanzemaljce, dinosauruse. On poče da puši džoint ko stoka, zakašlje se, i sline mu izadju iz nosa koje on obriše nekim lišćem. Posmatramo površinu reke, i vidimo nešto kako plovi ka nama. To je bila policijska kapa.
-Rečna policija!
Izroni policajac, sav mokar i sluzav, obavijen rečnom travom. Sreća što nismo imali više travu, inače bi nas uhapsio.
-Naduvali ste se. Lepo vam je, a?
Mi se smejemo. Policajac skoči natrag u vodu, i otplovi kao delfin. Mora da su imali neku stanicu u dnu reke. Riblja policija, haha! Ali on se vrati i ipak nas privede zbog rizli, i dade nam maske sa kiseonikom i mi zaronimo sa njim do dna reke, do neke kućice na dnu. U kućici su bila dva policajca, jedan za stolom, a drugi obešen o luster. Vrtela se ona hladilica na plafonu i udarala obešenog čoveka. Policajac za stolom je bio kapetan riblje policije, i ličio je malo na šarana. Policajac koji nas je priveo je stajao iza nas. Kod njih je dolazila povremeno žena sa pijace da uzme svežu ribu. Kapetan se zakašlja, izadje mu mehur i blato iz usta.
-Momci, loše vam se piše. Predvidjena kazna za vas je 15 godina. Imamo i ćelije ovde. Obešeni, pokaži im ćelije.
Obešeni visi, udara ga hladilica. Kapetan se gromko zasmeja sebi u bradu.
-Ah, da, on je mrtav. Uvek to zaboravim. Čovek svašta zaboravi ovde.
Kapetan se zagleda u sto, vodnjikav i prašnjav, popravi neke zgužvane papire i pogleda u nas.
-Naravno, i ja sam nekad duvao, kao i vi, momci. Znate šta, pustiću vas ako me neko od vas naduva. OK?
Kapetan skine pantalone i izvadi debelog djoku. Plutajuće blato mu predje preko lica.
-Ko će da me naduva?
-Što vam ne duvaju vaši pomoćnici?
-He, he. Pa ne mogu oni.
Ja, Dule i Boris odlučimo da odigramo zimi-zami-zum. Točak sudbine odabere Duleta. On mu ga ispuši, i kapetan poče da se naduvava kao balon i iskoči na površinu reke.
-Ah! Konačno malo vazduha.
Kapetan uze iglu i izbuši se i vrati se u stanicu kao mršavi, izduženi starac u crnom odelu. Pogleda Duleta sa takvom mržnjom da ovaj poskoči nazad. Onda ode na kraj sobe, u neki mrak. Mi smo bili začudjeni. Drugi policajac je otišao iza kućice da gleda porno magazine. Vrati se, i potera nas u ćeliju.
-Ali rekli ste da ćete nas pustiti!
Policajac nas osmotri blago nakrivivši glavu.
-Kapetan je usamljen čovek, i željan je društva. Maske vam neće trebati, ćelija je izolovana.
Policajac zalupi vrata. Otpadne malter sa zida. Ćelija je pružala osnovne higijenske potrebe, ali malo čega drugog. Bili smo jako zgureni. Na zidu je visila okačena slika Eduarda Manea „Doručak na travi“ u kojoj su gola devojka i obučen mladić doručkovali ležeći na travi. Na jednoj naslonjači je sedeo kostur, a u uglu sobe je stajao TV. Policajac nam kroz otvor ubaci ribu sa hlebom. Mi uzesmo ribu i posedasmo za TV. Na programu je bila emisija u kojoj su debili radosno trčali i igrali se jedni sa drugima, grleći se sa roditeljima koji su ih bodrili da nastave da trče, i koji su ih uveravali da nema više tih ljudi kojih su se bojali. Prebacili smo na drugi program, u kojem su neki čuvari kružili oko nekog mesta. Na trećem programu je prikazivana emisija „Jebanje mrtve dece na sto načina“ gde je krupan muškarac nabadao mrtvu devojčicu na kurac, na ćetvrtom je lepa devojka vrtela kukovima u ritmičnom zanosu, dok su okupljeni ljudi sedeli prekrštenih nogu i gledali je kao boga, a na petom emisija „Život i priključenija Todora Stavrofora“. Brzo sam prebacivao programe, upečatljive slike su se smenjivale u krešendu. Mi se zagledali, i zaboravili na naše trenutno stanje koje nije bilo naročito povoljno. Proverili smo sve mogućnosti, ali nije bilo izlaza. Ali kako smo upali, tako ćemo i izaći. Prolazili su dani, porasla nam brada, pušili smo jedni drugima. Jednog dana kapetan udje i pusti nas na slobodu. Izašli smo iz reke i krenuli prema centru. Ušli smo u čudno zbijeni i neprirodno visok tramvaj koji nas je odveo na poprište sukoba dve grupe ljudi, i tu je Dule počeo da razgovara sa policajcima o nekoj temi. Čekali smo ga na klupi, a posle otišli na kafu. Videsmo nekog misterioznog čoveka sa šeširom. Dule nam predloži da odemo kod Uroša. Ušli smo u pogrešni autobus, ali nas nije bilo briga, pa smo išli do kraja, i nazad. Tokom vožnje Dule zaspa, pa smo ga jedva probudili. Udarila ga vrućina. Ko zna koliko bi krugova okrenuo. Sišli smo kod Vuka, i spustili se u podzemni prolaz. Tu smo stajali malo i slušali kišu. Svidela nam se ta muzika. Kako kaplje, kao neka praskajuća tehno muzika. Onda smo seli ispred video kluba da odmorimo. Ja sam stavio levu nogu na neku stolicu. Izadje žena iz kluba i zaprepasti se.
-Alo, bre, šta radiš to?
Tu je stajao neki čuvar sa pištoljem za pojasom, pa smo otišli odatle, uvredjenog ponosa. Penjali smo se pokretnim stepenicama, i Dule ugleda malu cigančicu kako prosi novac. Reče joj da će joj dati 20 dinara ako mu popuši kurac. Odu oni u šumarak. Dule je jebao u usta.
-Mala cigančice, odmalena prosiš novac.
Ne gledavši, Dule upade u kanalizaciju. Jedva se izvukao i pobegao od ljudi pacova. Ugledao sam prelepog momka od 15-ak godina, mršavog, bronzanog, uskog dupeta. Bilo kako bilo, dodjemo mi kod Uroša. Tamo sede dva narkomana, jedan visok i mršav, drugi nizak i debeo. Treći je ležao u krevetu u patikama i spavao. Bila je tu i neka gola, mršava devojka bele puti. Oni duvaju i snifaju koku i pucaju heroin pa su dali i nama. Onaj što je spavao se probudi na miris trave i poče da moli ovog visokog za koku.
-Daj miii...
-Neću.
-Pičko.
Ovaj mu ipak da, i on skuva i pukne se. Zove oca.
-Napravi nešto da se nažderem. Dolazim.
Pitamo ga da nam nabavi eksere, i on ode po njih. Već se smračivalo. Brzo se vrati, i mi progutamo eksere. Zove ga otac.
-Hoćeš doći, sine?
-Nisam više gladan.
Posle je došao još jedan narkoman. Počeli su da pričaju neku narkomansku priču, kako su jurili pandurima jugom uskim zvezdarskim sokacima, kako je prošle godine bilo više koke, kako je Cvele uzajmljivao čarape suzatvoreniku u CZ-u. Tresnuo se spidom, pa blago zanjihao. Droga stupa na delo-kaza Žare, smejući se grotesknim ne-smehom, krastav i umrljan krvnim zrncima. Cvele je izgubio spid, pa napao Žareta šipkom. Tamara je uzela Borisa ustima kleknuvši, a ja sam joj prišao sa ledja i prodro u njeno belo dupe držeći je za ruke. Tamara se otkači od naših kurčeva i baci u kokainskoj paranoji. Posle smo otišli na tehno žurku, ja, Boris i Dule, a šta se tamo dešavalo, više ni ja ne znam. Mislim da je bila dobra žurka. Ivana mi je izdudlala za dva eksera na klupi pred početak. Sećam se da smo pronašli Mareta na klupi u parku, kako spava u progorelom kaputu, mrtav pijan, sa patuljkom pored sebe. Taj patuljak nas je odveo na putovanje kroz ružičasto meso i uveo u podzemni dvorac jakog svetla i menjajućih oblika. Tamo sam video Borisa-duplikata, i popričao sa njim, okružen iglama u močvari. Ali otvorio se portal i upao vukodlak u šumu visećih glava devojaka, konci mi leteše iz prstiju. Sigurno je da sam te noći doživeo ono što se ne da iskazati rečima, ili kroz misao. Znači, ono što se ne može pojmiti. Možda jedino kroz gubitak sebe. Probudio sam se oko pola 4 ujutru, u nekom parku. Video sam ogromnu maglu pred sobom. Čudno sam se osećao, hodao sam kao po blatu. Napipao sam nešto na glavi, nešto krzavo. Nebo nije bilo nebo. Protresao sam glavu. Iz nje su ispadali nekakvi kamenčići, potpuno besmisleno. Kleknuo sam na mekani beton, i u njemu video lice moje Anabele.
-Anabela...
Iz betona su izronile njene ruke i obuhvatile me. Kroz um su mi prolazile slike u kojima se teturam ulicom, vozim u autobusu gledajući kroz prozor i u moje prljave pantalone, slike poznate. Nalazim se u krevetu sa Anabelom, ona leži na stomaku, tucam je u dupe, ona svršava, vadim kurac i prskam je u ledja. Ulaze neki ljudi, nose nas sa krevetom u bunar, padamo a krevet se rastvara u jato ptica koje poleću uvis, dočekujem se na noge, Anabela se pretvara u pantera i nestaje u hodniku.
-Uhvati me!
Jurim je, ona me gadja strelama, ležimo sad na krevetu, diže se sunce, obasjava njenu guzu, ona me gleda iza ledja, iz nje izlazi silueta koja iscrtava samu sebe, nadgradjuje, kao voda koja spira kamen. Anabela ustaje, lice joj se menja kako se kreće, daje mi ogledalo, ne prepoznajem se, pogledam u Anabelu, nje nema, vratim se ogledalu, umesto njega ona mi se smeši, leži ispod mene, sedam za sto i jedem tortu. Odem za kompjuter, igram auto-trke. Ugledam sebe sa Anabelom u hiper-marketu, pričamo, vozim kolica. Oprosti mi, Anabela. Ugledam skupljača konzervi u parku, izbija dan pun belih zvezda. Nekad se zapitam, da li se to stvarno desilo? Neki dogadjaj. Vidim Borisa u autobusu, pa mi pobeže. Posle ga zovem. Kaže da je kući. Hodam sa Anabelom kroz jutarnju maglu, ona iskrivi glavu i udahne maglu pa je da meni kroz svetlucavo jutro ona je suva...došao sam kući, aha, ključevi, dobro, tu sam, zatvaram vrata, malo sam sedeo i slušao muziku, pa lako zaspao. Probudio sam se posle dva dana pod neizbledelim utiskom koji će odjekivati u meni dugo vremena. Upalio sam kompjuter i počeo da pišem. Pisao sam deset minuta, popušio ono malo trave što je ostalo, pogledao kroz terasu, otišao da kupim sok od jabuka slatko umornim korakom, sreo neke ljude, vratio se, pa ponovo prošetao da kupim cigare povremeno padajući u san dok sam išao, ali ipak budan, vraćao se kući svojoj. Uveče sam se sastao sa Borisom, ispod velikog drveta, u nekom uvučenom parku, malo smo prošetali, pa se rastali. Ja sam produžio nekuda, bilo kuda. Zašao sam u zagradjenu zonu koja se krivila na levo ukoso pa sam klizio u daljinu i u blesku polarne svetlosti upao u prostoriju u obliku ljudskih, ispucalih usana...noć je, uzimam papir za crtanje i slikam napuštenu fabriku koju vadim iz napuklog sećanja...dan i noć se prepliću...situacije iskaču nasumično i tiho u vrelom letnjem danu...duh oslobodjen tela je mučen iznenadnim udarcima vetra...kroz razbijene filtere fotoaparata sam pokušavao da uslikam fotografije izgubljenog sećanja...dodje mi neka pomisao, pa se izgubi, pa je tražim puzeći po tepihu, uzmem je i ona se raspadne u mojim rukama...cigani zauzeli prostor na zelenom vencu...u pola 5 imam kontrolu u Zavodu za kožne bolesti, ulazim u njenu ordinaciju i sedam na stolicu, skidajući majicu, savijem se i pokažem joj ledja bela i stvrdnuta od tečnosti.
-Kako vam izgleda, doktorka?
-Dobro je, smiruje se. Kontrola za dve nedelje.
Vratio sam se kući i legnuo da gledam film o nekom čoveku majstoru što je išao na putovanje. Neko mi pozvoni na vrata. Pojavi se mladić požutelog lica, zakržljao.
-Dobar dan, gospodine Pušinski. Pozivam vas na nedeljni sastanak udruženja mrzitelja bazena u 19:30, u haustoru 22.
On ode. Sednem na stolicu. Kad sam se ja to učlanio u udruženje mrzitelja bazena? Zar tako nešto postoji? Potražim u jakni člansku kartu. Tu je. Odem u mračnu sobu, gledam fotografije.
Evo nas na sastanku. Dugački sto, sede ljudi, i jedna devojka koju sam upoznao u foto-klubu, gleda me preko stola, na čelu predsednik visokog čela. U uglu sedi spremačica i puši cigaru zaklonjena iza ormana sa prašnjavim knjigama. Iz pukotina na stolu izlaze bubašvabe, i jedna mačka kašlje ispod stola. Obrati nam se predsednik.
-Gospodo, želim čuti vaše akcije tokom ove nedelje. Da počnemo od vas, Mirko.
-Ja sam prošao pored jednog punog bazena, i pogledao ga sa jakom mržnjom.
-Koliko je bila jaka ta mržnja, Mirko?
-Mnogo jaka.
I tako oni pričaju, i ja zaspim. U magnovenju čujem:
-Gospodo, sastanak je završen. Pridružite nam se u velikoj Sali na aperitiv, kasnije će biti predavanje ”Tehnike odbrane od bazenskih kompleksa”.
Na vreme izadjem sa njima u veliku salu, gde su ljudi stajali i pili šampanjac usporenim pokretima. Prošunjam se i izadjem na stražnji izlaz koji vodi kroz prostorije bioskopa ”Balkan”, pa iz njega izbijem na ulicu. Podjem trotoarom nizbrdo, ka 29-om. Udjem u tramvaj hvatajući se za šipke i sednem iza jednog brkatog čiče sa kapom na glavi. On poče pričati.
-Pušinski, mala Emili se izgubila u šumi. Moraš je pronaći.
Izadjem kod podvožnjaka, ispod vozne stanice ”Novi Beograd”. Popnem se gore tankim metalnim stepenicama i udjem u prazan voz. Proveravam koliko imam metaka u pištolju, sakrivši lice iza crnog šešira. Izadjem kod ranžirne stanice ”Makiš”. Makiš je jedna velika šuma sa močvarama kroz koju prolaze vozovi. Ima i nekih kuća, ali samo pri glavnom putu, gde prolaze automobili i poneki autobusi. Podjem u šumu, oko mene groblje razlupanih vozova i železničkog materijala. Na obzorju se vidi velika zgrada popucalih prozora, tkz. Centar za opravku vozova gde hodaju umrljani mašinci i radnici, a vozovi stoje na uzdignutim postoljima. Zadnji tragovi sunca su preletali preko šikara, sve je bivalo u kohabitaciji. Udjem unutra i vidim malu Emili kako čuči kraj velikog železničkog točka, umrljana mašinskim crnim uljem i uplašena. Pridjem joj, i ona mi se baci u zagrljaj. Lice joj čedno, nevino.
-Spasite me, gospodine!
-Ne brini se, mala Emili. Niko te više neće povrediti.
Uzmem je na krkače da je odvedem, ali navrnuše tri gangstera na ulaz, koji su pre toga obigravali spolja. Spustim Emili, i sakrijemo se iza točka. Gangsteri osuše paljbu, varnice sevaju. Ja uzvratim, i pogodim jednog u čelo, a drugog u stomak. Treći me pogodi u rame, ja podignem glavu od bola i vidim gredu koja visi na plafonu prikačena konopcem, pucam u konopac zadnjim metkom i greda se otpusti i zgnječi gangstera. Uzmem Emili za ručicu i povedem je napolje na sunce i čistinu, i mi podjemo kući, obasjani crvenilom zalaska sunca.
Pušinski izgasi cigaretu i zapali novu, pa otpije malo piva.
-Emilini roditelji su me dobro nagradili što sam je spasao.
-Ćudan slučaj, reče Čed Piterson paleći cigaretu. Platili su račun i izašli iz restorana, pa krenuli do šetališta pokraj reke.
As I mentioned earlier on the blog when discussing Grave Undertaking, Lionel White repeatedly returned to the heist formula. The two novels collected in this volume follow that same pattern, yet with noticeably different results.
The first novel proves the stronger of the two. It builds genuine tension through careful planning, clearly defined roles within the criminal team, and steadily escalating complications. The characters feel more sharply drawn, and — as is often the case in White’s fiction — one unstable personality ultimately destabilizes the entire operation. The collapse of the plan feels inevitable, but not arbitrary; it grows organically from ego, mistrust, and psychological imbalance.
The second novel, by contrast, feels more diffuse. While it contains the familiar elements of White’s method — preparation, execution, unraveling — the tension is weaker and the characters less distinct. The structure is still competent, but the narrative lacks the tightness and urgency that made the first novel compelling.
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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.
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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.
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.
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.
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 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’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.
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.
Bloody Murder is a useful reference book, but Julian Symons often comes across as rambling, jumping from one topic to another. What stands...
