Chandler's Misogyny and The Little Sister

 A few weeks ago I noted Michael Connelly’s love of Chapter 13 of Raymond Chandler’s The Little Sister. I have no quarrel with Connelly’s admiration for that passage. Reading it made me remember it had been a long time since I read The Little Sister, so I gave it another go.

Times change, but that rarely puts me off a book. What we would call “historical fiction” if it were written today gives an opportunity to see how things used to be without modern points of view re-interpreting the times for better or worse.

We change. Books I loved twenty years ago don’t do it for me anymore. (See Spillane, Mickey.) I can still appreciate the artistry, but the enterprise as a whole no longer moves me.

There are also books I didn’t care for when I first read them; second readings showed how badly I misjudged them. James Crumley’s The Last Good Kiss and Adrian McKinty’s Dead I Well May Be fall into this category. (In my defense, I read both for the first time during a month-long bout of mononucleosis I doubt I would have liked the movie L.A. Confidential during that month.)

Tangential to what’s above, I remembered an article in The Atlantic by Katy Waldman that discussed Chandler’s misogynistic tendencies; Megan Abbott followed up. At the time, my initial reaction was similar to Megan’s first impression. Also like Megan, I changed my mind. It just took me longer.

Full disclosure: I am not what anyone would consider woke. I say things that appall The Beloved Spouse™ on an almost daily basis. She knows they’re either for comic effect, because I’m trying out something for a character to say, or are strictly factual but insensitive. From what I’ve seen of the Warriors for Wokeness, these comments eliminate me right there, regardless of what actions I may or may not take.

That said, I was appalled by my recent reading of The Little Sister. Chandler wrote noir. Femme fatales are a staple of noir. I get that. It’s why he gets a pass for Helen Grayle in Farewell My Lovely. The problem with The Little Sister is that, while Dolores Gonzales may play that position, Chandler’s descriptions of the other primary women in the book are no more flattering.

Orfamay Quest, the little sister of the title, is a conniving sociopath who’d sell out her family for a few bucks. Gonzales is beyond slutty and either killed or fingered several people. Mavis Weld comes off best, and she’s a bitch for most of the book until he finds she at least has a bottom.

The lesser characters fare no better. There’s the orange-haired police stenographer and the woman in the city offices. Both are described in disparaging terms even though neither does anything damaging to Marlowe.

That got me to thinking about Chandler’s other novels. In The Big Sleep¸ Carmen Sternwood is a nut job and  Agnes Lozelle is a selfish harpy; Vivian Regan comes off best of the three and she spends most of the book sexually teasing Marloe to get him to do her bidding, though her motives are good. Eileen Wade in The Long Goodbye is a hot mess start to finish; the veneer of worthiness she’s given early on is due almost entirely to Marlowe’s sexual attraction. (It’s been forever since I read either The Lady in the Lake  or The High Window, so I’m leaving them aside for now.)

Don’t get me wrong. I’ve used women as bad guys. I even used one as a femme fatale. By and large, I think my female characters come off at least as well as the men. The only women in a Chandler novel I can think of who resembles a good person more than superficially is Anne Riordan in Farewell My Lovely.

Raymond Chandler’s books were among the primary reasons I got into writing seriously. I have no idea how many times I’ve read The Big Sleep, Farewell My Lovely, and The Long Goodbye. I can point to two things that have lowered him in my esteem;

1.    I read The World of Raymond Chandler: In His Own Words. Editor Barry Day uses Chandler’s letters to give a picture of the author, who never wrote a memoir. The image that emerges is that of a selfish prig who has serious problems with women. Anyone who knows the story of the relationship he had with his wife is already aware of this.

2.    I got into reading Dashiell Hammett and better appreciated the virtues of telling the goddamn story and getting out.

I’m not finished reading Chandler. I’m sure I’ll read the big three again, though he’s on an extended hiatus right now. It takes a lot to offend me when reading a book, but there were several places in The Little Sister where he had me thinking, “Okay, Ray, I get it. She’s a slut/bitch/cunt. Move on.” I’m sure that’s going to color my reading from now on, even when I’m not actively thinking it.

The short stories don’t have so much of this, nor of the other naval-gazing aspects of what it’s like to be a drugged Philip Marlowe, or his too often misanthropic observations. I have the complete collection. Maybe it’s time to give them another look.

Dead Shot: The Memoir of Walter Ferguson; Soldier, Marshal, Bootlegger To Be Released November 22

 Well, I finally got around to it.

After years of dithering and several abortive starts, I finished a Western. Dead Shot: The Memoir of Walter Ferguson, Soldier, Marshal, Bootlegger drops four weeks from today, on November 22, just in time for holiday shopping. (Hint, hint.)

Dead Shot is unique from my other books in several ways besides being my first Western. First, I didn’t “write” it; I am but the “editor.” The conceit is that I stumbled across the notes for a memoir by a western Pennsylvania native while researching a Penns River novel. Walter Ferguson (1844 – 1937) told his life story to a woman named Helena Elizabeth Judson, who took copious written notes and even a few wire recordings. Both participants died before the project came to fruition, and somehow the notes ended up at the Alle-Kiski Historical Society, where I found them. I then took it upon myself to complete what Walt and Helena had “begun.”

Another difference is that Walt crosses paths with historical figures and participates in documented historical events. Along the way he interacts with frontier notables, including Charlie Bassett, Butch Cassidy, Wyatt Earp, Wild Bill Hickok, Bat Masterson (and his brothers), Johnny Ringo, Al Swearengen, and Bill Tilghman among others. Walt also participates in the Second Battle of Adobe Walls and the Dodge City War.

I also had to come up with a new style and voice that felt more appropriate for the era. I read several memoirs of cowboys, lawmen, and criminals in hope of cobbling together something that would ring true as an oral history as told though Walt’s eyes without seeming too archaic.

I had a ball writing Dead Shot and The Beloved Spouse™ enjoyed listening to me read it to her; she is always a good judge of how well what I wrote is received by others. J. D. Rhoades, author of the Jack Keller series as well as the acclaimed Western The Killing Look, said, “A fascinating, picaresque journey through a tumultuous post-Civil-War American West. Walter tells his tale with scrupulous honesty and wry wit as he encounters legends and makes a few of his own. Fans of Thomas Berger's Little Big Man are going to love this one. Highly recommended.”

Here’s a tease from Chapter One:

My name is Walter Stewart Ferguson. I was born in Westmoreland County, Pennsylvania on January 17, 1844. Or January 14, depending on who you ask. I celebrate on the 17^th, as that is the date Mother told me and I figure she should know. It is also the birthday of the greatest Pennsylvanian of all time, Benjamin Franklin, and who better to share a birthday with than he? [Editor’s Note: The facts are unclear. Many local birth records were damaged or destroyed in the flood of 1936, as were the baptismal records of the Ferguson family church.]

I am the second of five children to survive more than one year, along with an older sister (Oneida), a younger brother (Seward), and two younger sisters, Ella and MaryLou. An older brother was stillborn and a sister, Ethel, was taken by the whooping cough in her first year.

I could always shoot. My father, Gordon, was a more than passable marksman, but I bested him the first time he took me out to learn. People said it was a gift from God, my ability to shoot accurately with whatever was in my hand, be it musket, rifle, pistol, or bow and arrow. Only God knows if that is true. All I can say for certain is that it led me to do things I am not sure God would approve of. I suppose one day I will find out.

Dead Shot will be available on Amazon November 22. Look for special pricing over that weekend.

(Note: I know, I know. Some might consider releasing a book titled Dead Shot on the anniversary of the Kennedy assassination to be in questionable taste. For reasons of my own, I always planned to drop the book on the Friday before Thanksgiving. I didn’t realize that was the 22^nd until I looked it up just now. If anyone takes umbrage…well, damn, people. It’s been 61 years. He’d be dead by now, anyway.)

That's Just, Like, Your Opinion, Man

 It’s a common topic around elections:

Should writers express their personal opinions publicly?

The traditional wisdom says, “No. It might cost you sales if you offend a reader or potential reader.”

My thought is, “Has anyone ever done a legitimate, serious study with empirical evidence?”

I’m willing to bet the answer is no to that, too. Publishers and marketing firms don’t have anything like hard data to tell why people buy books, don’t buy books, what marketing works, or what marketing doesn’t work. Everyone is just supposed to cede the field to their “experience” and “expertise,” which I have boiled down into a couple of sentences.

No one knows what will sell, but we know what won’t. And your book won’t.

So I’m not overwhelmed by the It might cost you sales argument.

Two other thoughts come to mind:

1.    Has anyone ever checked to see if expressing one’s opinion might increase sales, at least enough to offset those lost by the people you pissed off? Let’s face it, unless you’re in the Stephen King, Lee Child, Diana Gabaldon stratus of writers, very few people pay attention to what you say outside the confines of one of your books. If you tweet or Facebook discourteous things about MAGA, might that not get the attention of some actual patriots? If your opinions are pro-MAGA, while they might cost a few readers on the other side, it could tick up your sales to MAGAites. (Assuming they have someone who will read the books to them.)

2.    We are all humans and citizens in addition to being writers. I’ll go so far as to say our humanity and citizenship should take precedence over our writing. If you’re afraid to speak out because it might cost you sales, what about if the wrong side wins and the libel laws are changed to what The Felon would like to see? Or if you books are banned altogether because the First Amendment doesn’t mean what it used to? How’s that going to work out for you?

Crime fiction writers are well-known for their empathy. If our consciences allow us to stand quietly by while injustice is planned and perpetrated, how much of a conscience do we really have?

Writers, by definition, have a gift for using words. That gives us an obligation to speak out when we feel something isn’t right, or to pass along compliments when someone steps up and does the right thing.

We all know the famous poem by Martin Niemöller:

 

First they came for the Communists

And I did not speak out

Because I was not a Communist

Then they came for the Socialists
And I did not speak out
Because I was not a Socialist

Then they came for the trade unionists
And I did not speak out
Because I was not a trade unionist

Then they came for the Jews
And I did not speak out
Because I was not a Jew

Then they came for me
And there was no one left
To speak out for me

Well, if you – or anyone you care about – are an immigrant, person of color, queer, Jewish, Muslim, or a woman of any description, the MAGAs and their ilk, armed with Project 2025, are coming for you.

Will you stand quietly by and allow the others to be demonized and marginalized – and worse – until there is no one left to speak for you?

I’m not. And if that means I never sell another book, I’m good with it. Book sales have never kept me awake at night. MAGA does.

 

The Ethics of Fictional Detectives, Part 2

 Welcome back to One Bite at a Time. Today Bill Gormley and I will conclude our discussion on the ethics of fictional detectives. For those who missed last week’s installment, here you go.

One Bite at a Time (From last week): You mentioned characters can go from Moralist to Pragmatist and from Pragmatist to Rogue as conditions dictate. Does it work in the other direction? Can a Rogue evolve into a Pragmatist or a Pragmatist into a Moralist?

Bill Gormley:  That’s an excellent question, Dana, but a tough one to answer.  I find myself asking whether there’s a fictional detective out there who previously served time in prison?  I know that there’s a very successful mystery author who served time in prison for a capital offense.  Anne Perry.  I wonder if she’s ever featured a detective who was an ex-con in one of her books.  Do you happen to know? 

The one detective I can think of who’s sort of progressed from a Rogue into a Moralist is Sean Duffy, who’s featured in Adrian McKinty’s splendid mystery series, set in Ireland during the Time of the Troubles.  As a young man, Duffy, a Catholic, tried to join the IRA.  Had he succeeded, he would probably have killed many people outside the confines of the law. Very rougish. But he was rebuffed by the IRA.  At that point, he made an odd choice – to become a policeman for the Royal Ulster Constabulary, which  was the police force for northern Ireland.  A great story line, right?

Truthfully, Duffy is very hard to classify, for all sorts of reasons.  At times, he’s been a Moralist, a Pragmatist, and a Rogue.  Sometimes while working the same case!  Another way to put it is that he has his own moral code, which reflects the reality that neither side in the long, bloody Irish dispute had a monopoly on virtue.  Duffy tried to apprehend and punish lawbreakers, but he also administered his own moral code, even when it was clearly contrary to the law of the land.  What I really like and admire about Duffy, in addition to his wonderful sense of humor, is that morality is front and center for him.  Instead of siding with his tribe through thick and through thin, Duffy distances himself from both sides and tries to act as a just God might act.  Vigilante justice, in a way.  But fueled by an ethical code, not by hatred or a desire for revenge.***

OBAAT: None of Ann Perry’s series protagonists had criminal backgrounds; I didn’t dive into her other works. While several writers served time themselves – Chester Himes and Les Edgerton come to mind – I know of none who wrote detectives who had themselves been felons. Given today’s propensity for companies and governments to hire convicts as security consultants, this seems to be an area ripe for exploitation.

I’m glad you brought up Adrian McKinty and Sean Duffy. I’ve been a fan of Adrian’s work since I first read the Michael Forsythe stories. I can’t remember reading anything that was better than the Duffy novels at putting me in a different place and time. Cold Cold Ground is a harrowing description of life in Northern Ireland during The Troubles, with the horror made more real through Duffy’s casual description of how he deals with it.

More to our point about ethics, your comment about Duffy’s personal code got me to thinking that may be the common thread that runs through all the ethical trees of detectives: fictional detectives, especially PIs, live by their own codes. A Moralist’s code may be to do things by the book, but that was his or her decision. Rogues and Pragmatists may/will break the written rules, but always in support of their own vision of what needs to be set right and how best they can do it without crossing the lines they have drawn for themselves.

This seems to me to be a core element of fictional detectives. Can you think of any who lack their own internally imposed set of ethics?

BG:  Thanks for investigating Anne Perry's books.  She may be one of those rare novelists whose personal story would be even more riveting than a great work of fiction.  When I think of detectives or P.I.s with a troubled past, I think mainly of recovering alcoholics.  Like Matthew Scudder in Lawrence Block's outstanding mysteries.  A detective who did hard time has some potential.  Or a detective who committed a crime that has not yet come to light, as in the first Kate Burkholder mystery by Linda Castillo.  The back story, from an Amish community in rural Ohio, is compelling.

 I think you're right that most fictional detectives and P.I.s have strong views.  I'm less convinced that they have a well-formulated system of values.  Many of them are deeply committed to preventing crime, capturing criminals, and punishing criminals.  To some extent, they are playing a role.  At the same time, it is a role they have chosen, which means it is probably consistent with many of their views.

In many of the mysteries I read, detectives and P.I.s frequently collide with their bosses.  Supervisors want quick results, which encourages detectives to cut corners.  Supervisors want to protect the rich and powerful, which encourages a cover-up.  Detectives may comply or resist.

We can infer values from the choices detectives make when they clash with their bosses.  But I like it when authors give their detectives the chance to articulate what they believe and why they believe it.  To me, that makes for rewarding reading.  It's great to get inside other people's heads.

OBAAT: Your comment, “Supervisors want to protect the rich and powerful, which encourages a cover-up.  Detectives may comply or resist.” Reminds me that many of the best detective fiction – cop or private – uses the reluctance of the detective to go along with a protective coverup as the core of the story. This always brings to mind A quote from Raymond Chandler’s “The Simple Art of Murder”: “He is a relatively poor man, or he would not be a detective at all. He is a common man or he could not go among common people. He has a sense of character, or he would not know his job. He will take no man’s money dishonestly and no man’s insolence without a due and dispassionate revenge. He is a lonely man and his pride is that you will treat him as a proud man or be very sorry you ever saw him.” That describes a man who is not likely to accede to a coverup and, if confronted with one he cannot overcome directly, will exact his own idea if justice, however flawed.

Detective fiction, especially private detective fiction, waxes and wanes in popularity; I doubt it will disappear, for the reasons we have discussed these past two weeks. There are just too many ways of exploring too many things.

Many thanks to Bill Gormley for his time and insights. I hope he had as much fun as I did. If you’re at a conference and have a chance to catch him on a panel, by all means do so.

 

The Ethics of Fictional Detectives, Part 1

I became acquainted with Bill Gormley at last spring’s Malice Domestic conference after hearing him speak on a panel that discussed the ethics of fictional detectives. As a detective guy myself, what he said intrigued me and I asked him if he would send me his comments for use here in the blog. That led to a discussion that will play out here over the next few weeks. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed working with Bill to put it together.

Bill served as University Professor of Public Policy and Government at Georgetown University, where he co-directed the Center for Research on Children in the U.S. (CROCUS). He is the author of Too Many Bridges, a murder mystery published by Level Best Books in August. He is also the creator of Profs on Cops, a podcast that features interviews with criminologists and social scientists who are doing cutting-edge research on police practices and behavior. I’ve become a regular listener and it’s costing me money, as I find myself wanting the books several guests have written.

Bill Gormley: Most detectives and private eyes see their primary goal as solving crimes.  But how far will they go in pursuing that goal?  Will they ignore a direct order from a superintendent or client?  Will they lie?    Will they break into someone’s home or place of business without authorization?  Will they engage in violence?  And what if other goals come in to play?  Their reputation?  The well-being of their family members or friends?  Getting to take a vacation on schedule?

These are ethical questions.  Whether we like it or not as mystery authors, our detectives face many ethical dilemmas in their line of work.  How do they resolve them? 

As a starting point, I believe that detectives and private eyes can be placed into one of three categories:  moralists, pragmatists, or rogues.

A MORALIST is someone who obeys the law, who follows orders, who tells the truth, and who eschews gratuitous violence. Examples: Adam Dalgliesh (P.D. James);  Matthew Venn (Ann Cleeves);  Joe Leaphorn (Tony and Anne Hillerman);  Armand Gamache (Louise Penny);  Ian Rutledge (Charles Todd).

A ROGUE is someone who does not follow the letter of the law, who disobeys orders that get in the way of professional or personal goals, who lies or stretches the truth when it is convenient, and who sometimes inflicts violence on others out of anger or in pursuit of rough justice. Examples: Harry Bosch (Michael Connelly);  John Rebus (Ian Rutledge);  Liz Salander (Stieg Larsson);  Harry Hole (Jo Nesbo);    Dave Robicheaux (James Lee Burke).

A PRAGMATIST is someone who tries to be moralistic but who behaves as a rogue when fatigue sets in, when a conflict of interest arises, when the stakes are high, or when it is the most expedient way to solve a crime and identify or convict a murderer. A majority of fictional detectives are pragmatists:  Anna Pigeon (Nevada Barr); Zoe Chambers (Annette Dashofy); Kinsey Millhone (Sue Grafton); Joe Pickett (C.J. Box);  Easy Rawlins (Walter Mosley).

Dana King:  Why should we care about this?  And do you have a preference for one type of detective over another?

Bill Gormley: Stories populated by moralists have advantages and disadvantages.  Stories populated by rogues have advantages and disadvantages.  Highlighting ethical dilemmas adds another dimension, an important dimension, to our characters.  A window to their souls.  As a profession, we should be thinking about these issues.

Rogues are especially compelling.  It’s like watching a train wreck in progress.  Disturbing but riveting.  Moralists are especially admirable.  It’s easy to root for them.  They appeal to our better natures.  Pragmatists are especially realistic.  We recognize pragmatists in detective fiction, because most of us are probably pragmatists in real life.  For most of us, moralism is aspirational but not always attainable, while outright roguery is beyond the pale.

One Bite at a Time:  Are some settings especially fertile ground for ethical dilemmas?

BG: If you’re drawn to ethical dilemmas, there are plenty of opportunities to harvest them.  Ireland in the time of the Troubles (1968-1998) presents such an opportunity.  An abundance of searing conflicts based on religion, geography, and politics. Police at the Station and They Don’t Look Friendly (Adrian McKinty) is a good example. Anjili Babbar does a brilliant job of dissecting and probing the values of fictional detectives in Ireland and expats in the U.S. during the time of The Troubles. You can find her take on these issues in Finders:  Justice, Faith, and Identity in Irish Crime Fiction (Syracuse University Press, 2023).

Conflicts between whites and Blacks in the U.S. also present such an opportunity.  In the Heat of the Night (John Ball). Blanche on the Lam (Barbara Neely). Small Mercies (Dennis Lehane). All the Sinners Bleed (S.A. Cosby).  Crook Manifesto (Colson Whitehead). What does racial prejudice and inter-racial violence look like from a Black person’s perspective?  From a white person’s perspective?  What are your obligations to your family, to your community, to your race, to your employer, to your co-workers?  And what if they conflict? 

There are other ethical dilemmas out there waiting to be discovered by mystery writers.  What obligations, if any, do we have when a close relative needs a kidney transplant?  What obligations, if any, do we have when a close relative, near death, wants a push to the other side?  (See Richard Osman’s The Last Devil To Die.) What obligations, if any, do we have when we discover that a friend or colleague has committed a serious crime?  There is lots of grist for the mill out there, and it’s exciting to think about these possibilities.

OBAAT:  What types of detectives or P.I.’s do you think that readers prefer?  Moralists, Pragmatists, or Rogues?

BG: We read mysteries for different reasons.  If we want to see a criminal brought to justice, then we might be drawn to rogues, because they are willing to do almost anything to catch, prosecute, or kill a murderer.  If we like unpredictability, we might be drawn to rogues, because you never know what they are going to do.  Neither the law nor their department’s rules and regs nor their boss’ direct orders has much effect on their behavior.  But if we want to immerse ourselves for a day or two in a grim struggle between good and evil, then we might be drawn to moralists, because they are on the victim’s side but they also play by the rules.  They are respectful, thoughtful, admirable.  It’s easy to root for them.  And it’s easy to distinguish between them and the criminals they are trying to catch. 

Personally, a rogue hooks me on a book; a moralist hooks me on a series.  For example, I recall being very excited when I read Jo Nesbo’s first murder mystery, The Bat, featuring Oslo police detective Harry Hole.  He was a loose cannon but relentless in pursuit of the murderer.  A fascinating character.  But as the series wore on, I came to view Harry as annoying and self-destructive.  He was not a team player and he often got in the way of solving a crime.  His alcoholism was problematic. He also kept losing body parts!  For the long haul, I’d prefer to follow Armand Gamache, the Chief Inspector in Louise Penny’s marvelous series about the Quebec Surete.  You don’t know what tricks or strategies he’ll employ to snag a murderer, but you can be sure that he will be fair and honest and keep his eyes on the prize.  I enjoy following him in case after case.  Plus you get to enjoy a slice of life in Three Pines, where Penny has created some memorable and amusing characters.

OBAAT: Thanks, Bill. Reading this brought back the interest you piqued when I heard you speak at Malice Domestic. I particularly like how you allow for some blurring of the lines, e.g. how a Moralist might be pushed into becoming a Pragmatist by circumstances. The main detective in my Penns River series of procedurals is a Moralist, though he’s also a smartass who may tread a line verbally from time to time. On the other hand, my private investigator, Nick Forte, was a Pragmatist who has crossed over into Rogue status in recent books.

You mentioned characters can go from Moralist to Pragmatist and from Pragmatist to Rogue as conditions dictate. Does it work in the other direction? Can a Rogue evolve into a Pragmatist or a Pragmatist into a Moralist?

Come back next week as Bill and I continue our chat on the ethics of fictional detectives.