![]() ![]() And that he was a bastard,” you could expect such a line from a noir novel, from a pulp novel, from a detective novel. By the time Crumley wrote, “Then he told me about naked women and sunlight. They had art injected into them like adrenaline into a stammering heart and art drawn out of them like venom from a snake bite. Noir, pulp, and hard-boiled detective fiction had been around the block a bit by the time James Crumley got his hands on them in the late 70s. And then isn’t it about finding the one thing so many seek-forgiveness-and being so unprepared for it, so unable to cope with it, so incapable of corroborating the idea of your self with the idea of your self as someone worthy of forgiveness, that you destroy everything in your life? Doesn’t it always start with writer’s block? And isn’t it always about sex? And money? And, sure, sex for money? Or at least a man wanting to own his wife’s past, because men want to own everything of the women they marry. Or at least a successful writer with a couple critically acclaimed poetry collections and a few hyper-masculine novels to pay the bills on an epic cross-country drinking binge, leading a PI hired by the writer’s ex-wife from dirty bar to dirty bar. Or at least a successful writer with a couple critically acclaimed poetry collections and a few hyper-masculine commercial novels to pay the bills. Doesn’t it always start with poetry? Or at least a poet. ![]()
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