Daily Archives: January 12, 2018

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Un indian a sapat un drum prin munti, astfel incat copiii sai sa poata ajunge la scoala – Hotnews Mobile


1 € 4,6377 1 USD 3,8247vineri 12 ian 2018







Un indian a sapat un drum prin munti, astfel incat copiii sai sa poata ajunge la scoala

de N.O. Joi, 11 ianuarie 2018, 20:43

– a A+


Jalandhar Nayak a folosit o dalta, o sapa si un tarnacop pentru a sapa un drum de 8 kilometri, pentru a-si ajuta cei trei copiii sa ajunga la scoala, relateaza  The Guardian .

Cei trei copii ai sai faceau trei ore pana la scoala, din cauza terenului stancos si accidentat, asa ca, in urma cu doi ani, Jalandhar Nayak, un vanzator de legume din statul Odisha, a luat o dalta, o sapa si un tarnacop si a inceput sa construiasca un drum mai scurt.
Eforturile sale au ajuns, saptamana aceasta, in atentia oficialilor guvernamentali, cand povestea lui Nayak a fost prezentata la stiri, iar reprezentantii Guvernului au spus ca planuiesc sa il recompenseze.

“Copiii mei faceau eforturi sa mearga pe calea ingusta si pietroasa pana la scoala. I-am vazut adesea ca se impiedica de pietre si am decis sa sap un drum prin munte, astfel incat sa poata merge mai usor “, a declarat el pentru News World Odisha.
Administratorul teritoriului a spus eforturile si determinarea lui Nayak l-a lasat fara cuvinte si ca acesta va fi platit pentru timpul  pe care l-a petrecut construind traseul dintre satul Gumsahi si scoala, care se afla in Phulbani.
Familia lui Nayak este singura care a mai ramas in Gumashi, restul parasind satul pentru zone cu drumuri mai bune.
Nayak planuia sa munceasca inca trei ani pentru a termina drumul pana la scoala, intrucat au mai ramas 7 kilometri, dar reprezentantii guvernului in teritoriu au promis ca vor termina ei drumul.

4905 afisari



9 comentarii

Asta face Pitesti – Sibiu mai repede 
Wanheda [utilizator], Joi, 11 ianuarie 2018, 21:30


Decat Guvernul Romaniei.

daca un roman face asta 
gudron [utilizator], Joi, 11 ianuarie 2018, 22:26


vine politia si il amendeaza. Si il pune sa astupe tunelul. Si il baga si in puscarie.

 inca 7 comentariicomenteaza


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May it be an evening star
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Oh! How far you are from home

Mornie utulie 
Believe and you will find your way
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MARIA TĂNASE – CÂNTEC DE NUNTĂ DIN FĂGĂRAŞ Iese muma miresii, In mijlocul curtii, Și se roagă Soarelui: Ține soare ziua mare C-am o fată călătoare, Peste munți, la alte curți, La părinți necunoscuți, La surori fără durori, Și la frați ne întreb – SoundCloud

Listen to MARIA TĂNASE – CÂNTEC DE NUNTĂ DIN FĂGĂRAŞ Iese muma miresii, In mijlocul curtii, Și se roagă Soarelui: Ține soare ziua mare C-am o fată călătoare, Peste munți, la alte curți, La părinți necunoscuți, La surori fără durori, Și la frați ne întreb by georgebost #np on #SoundCloud

Camelias in January…somewhere in Southern California

Camelias in January…somewhere in Southern California

Greatest quotations:  Henry Miller – Wikiquote 


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Henry Miller

American novelist

Take a good look at me. Now tell me, do you think I’m the sort of fellow who gives a fuck what happens once he’s dead?

Henry Valentine Miller (26 December 18917 June 1980) was an American writer.


No man is great enough or wiseenough for any of us to surrender our destiny to. The only way in which anyone can lead us is to restore to us the belief in our own guidance.

  • To walk in money through the night crowd, protected by money, lulled by money, dulled by money, the crowd itself a money, the breath money, no least single object anywhere that is not money, money, money everywhere and still not enough, and then no money or a little money or less money or more money, but money, always money, and if you have money or you don’t have money it is the money that counts and money makes money, but what makes money make money?
    • Tropic of Capricorn (1939)
  • Imagination is the voice of daring. If there is anything Godlike about God it is that. He dared to imagine everything.
    • Tropic of Capricorn (1939)
  • The aim of life is to live, and to live means to be aware, joyously, drunkenly, serenely, divinely aware.
    • Tropic of Capricorn (1939)
  • Take a good look at me. Now tell me, do you think I’m the sort of fellow who gives a fuck what happens once he’s dead?
    • Tropic of Capricorn (1939)
  • Confusion is a word we have invented for an order which is not understood.
  • What an astounding thing is the voice! By what miracle is the hot magma of the earth transformed into that which we call speech? If out of clay such an abstract medium as words can be shaped what is to hinder us from leaving our bodies at will and taking up our abode on other planets or between the planets? What is to prevent us from rearranging all life, atomic, molecular, corporeal, stellar, diving? Who or what is powerful enough to eradicate this miraculous leaven which we bear within us like a seed and which, after we have embraced in our mind all the universe, is nothing more than a seed — since to say universe is as easy as to say seed, and we have yet to say greater things, things beyond saying, things limitless and inconceivable, things which no trick of language can encompass.
    • The Colossus of Maroussi (1941)
  • If men cease to believe that they will one day become gods then they will surely become worms.
    • The Colossus of Maroussi (1941)
  • To be free, as I then knew myself to be, is to realize that all conquest is vain, even the conquest of self, which is the last act of egotism. To be joyous is to carry the ego to its last summit and to deliver it triumphantly. To know peace is total: it is the moment after, when the surrenderer is complete, when there is no longer even the consciounsness of surrender. Peace is at the centre and when it is attainded the voice issues forth in praise and benediction. Then the voice carries far and wide, to the outermost limits of the universe. Then it heals, because it brings light and the warmth of compassion.
    • The Colossus of Maroussi (1941)
  • The history of the world is the history of a privileged few.
    • Sunday after the war (1944), pub. New Directions.
  • To live without killing is a thought which could electrify the world, if men were only capable of staying awake long enough to let the idea soak in.
  • We’re creators by permission, by grace as it were. No one creates alone, of and by himself. An artist is an instrument that registers something already existent, something which belongs to the whole world, and which, if he is an artist, he is compelled to give back to the world.
    • The Rosy Crucifixion I : Sexus (1949)
  • A man writes to throw off the poison which he has accumulated because of his false way of life. He is trying to recapture his innocence, yet all he succeeds in doing is to inoculate the world with a virus of his disillusionment. No man would set a word down on paper if he had the courage to live out what he believed in….
    • The Rosy Crucifixion I : Sexus (1949), Chapter 1. (New York: Grove Press, c1965, p. 17-18)
  • The man who looks for security, even in the mind, is like a man who would chop off his limbs in order to have artificial ones which will give him no pain or trouble.
    • The Rosy Crucifixion I : Sexus (1949), Chapter 14. (New York: Grove Press, c1965, p. 339)
  • Many is the mirage I chased. Always I was overreaching myself. The oftener I touched reality, the harder I bounced back to the world of illusion, which is the name for everyday life. ‘Experience! More experience!’ I clamored. In a frantic effort to arrive at some kind of order, some tentative working program, I would sit down quietly now and then and spend long, long hours mapping out a plan of procedure. Plans, such as architects and engineers sweat over, were never my forte. But I could always visualize my dreams in a cosmogonic pattern. Though I could never formulate a plot I could balance and weigh opposing forces, characters, situations, events, distribute them in a sort of heavenly lay-out, always with plenty of space between, always with the certitude that there is no end, only worlds within worlds ad infinitum, and that wherever one left off one had created a world, a world finite, total, complete.
    • The Rosy Crucifixion II : Plexus (1953)
  • No man is great enough or wise enough for any of us to surrender our destiny to. The only way in which anyone can lead us is to restore to us the belief in our own guidance.
    • The Wisdom of the Heart (1951)
  • In this age, which believes that there is a short-cut to everything, the greatest lesson to be learned is that the most difficult way, in the long run, is the easiest.
    • The Books in My Life (1952) Preface (2nd edition. New York: New Directions Publishing, 1969, p. 12)
  • If we have not found heaven within, it is a certainty we will not find it without.
    • The Books in My Life (1952) Chapter 11: The Story of My Heart (2nd edition. New York: New Directions Publishing, 1969, p. 192)
  • Often, when following the trail which meanders over the hills, I pull myself up in an effort to encompass the glory and the grandeur which envelops the whole horizon. Often, when the clouds pile up in the north and the sea is churned with white caps, I say to myself: “This is the California that men dreamed of years ago, this is the Pacific that Balboa looked out on from the Peak of Darien, this is the face of the earth as the Creator intended it to look.”
    • From: Miller, H. (1957). Big Sur and the Oranges of Hieronymus Bosch, New Directions Books, New York, p. 6.
  • One’s destination is never a place, but rather a new way of looking at things.
    • From: Miller, H. (1957). Big Sur and the Oranges of Hieronymus Bosch
    • Often misquoted as “One’s destination is never a place, but a new way of seeing things”.
  • Obscenity is a cleansing process, whereas pornography only adds to the murk.
    • Interview, 1961
  • Through art then, one finally establishes contact with reality: that is the great discovery. Here all is play and invention; there is no solid foothold from which to launch the projectiles which will pierce the miasma of folly, ignorance and greed. The world has not to be put in order: the world is order incarnate. It is for us to put ourselves in unison with this order, to know what is the world order in contradistinction to the wishful-thinking orders which we seek to impose on one another. The power which we long to possess, in order to establish the good, the true and the beautiful, would prove to be, if we could have it, but the means of destroying one another. It is fortunate that we are powerless.
    • From: Miller, H. (1969). “Creation,” The Henry Miller Reader. New York: New Directions Publishing Corporation. p.33.
  • She was to me, and still is, the greatest person I have known – one who can truly be called a “devoted” soul. I owe her everything.
    • Letters of Henry Miller and Wallace Fowlie (1975)
  • The new always carries with it the sense of violation, of sacrilege. What is dead is sacred; what is new, that is, different, is evil, dangerous, or subversive.
  • A guy who’s always interested in the condition of the world, and changing it, either has no problems of his own, or refuses to face them… not wanting to face things of his own nature.
    • Reds (1981)

Tropic of Cancer (1934)Edit

  • This is not a book. This is libel, slander, defamation of character. This is not a book, in the ordinary sense of the word. No, this is a prolonged insult, a gob of spit in the face of Art, a kick in the pants to God, Man, Destiny, Time, Love, Beauty … what you will.
    • Chapter One
  • I have no money, no resources, no hopes. I am the happiest man alive.
    • Chapter One
  • There is only one thing which interests me vitally now, and that is the recording of all that which is omitted in books.
    • Chapter One
  • Well, I’ll take these pages and move on. Things are happening elsewhere. Things are always happening. It seems wherever I go there is drama. People are like lice – they get under your skin and bury themselves there. You scratch and scratch until the blood comes, but you can’t get permanently deloused. Everywhere I go people are making a mess of their lives. Everyone has his private tragedy. It’s in the blood now – misfortune, ennui, grief, suicide. The atmosphere is saturated with disaster, frustration, futility. Scratch and scratch, until there’s no skin left. However, the effect upon me is exhilarating. Instead of being discouraged or depressed, I enjoy it. I am crying for more and more disasters, for bigger calamities, grander failures. I want the whole world to be out of whack, I want every one to scratch himself to death.
    • Chapter One
  • For a hundred years or more the world, our world, has been dying. And not one man, in these last hundred years or so, has been crazy enough to put a bomb up the asshole of creation and set it off. The world is rotting away, dying piecemeal. But it needs the coup de grace, it needs to be blown to smithereens.
    • Chapter Two
  • It is no accident that propels people like us to Paris. Paris is simply an artificial stage, a revolving stage that permits the spectator to glimpse all phases of the conflict. Of itself Paris initiates no dramas. They are begun elsewhere. Paris is simply an obstetrical instrument that tears the living embryo from the womb and puts it in the incubator. Paris is the cradle of artificial births. Rocking here in the cradle each one slips back into his soil; one dreams back to Berlin, New York, Chicago, Vienna, Minsk,. Vienna is never more Vienna than Paris. Everything is raised to its apotheosis. The cradle gives up its babes and new ones take their place. You can real here on the walls Zola lived and Balzac and Dante and Strindberg and everybody who ever was anything. Everyone has lived here some time or other. Nobody dies here. . .
    • Chapter Two
  • “I am a free man-and I need my freedom. I need to be alone. I need to ponder my shame and my despair in seclusion. I need sunshine and paving tones of the streets without companions, without conversation, face to face with myself with only the music of my heart for company. What do you want of me? When I have something to say, I put it in print. When I have something to give, I give it. Your prying curiosity turns my stomach! Your compliments humiliate me. Your tea poisons me! I owe nothing to anyone, I would’ve responsible to God alone-if he exited!”
    • Chapter Four, Pappin
  • Sleep, Napoleon! It was not your ideas they wanted, it was your corpse.
    • Chapter Four

The Wisdom of the Heart (1941)Edit

Any genuine philosophy leads to action and from action back again to wonder, to the enduring fact of mystery.

  • All about us we see a world in revolt; but revolt is negative, a mere finishing-off process. In the midst of destruction we carry with us also our creation, our hopes, our strength, our urge to be fulfilled. The climate changes as the wheel turns, and what is true for the sidereal world is true for man. The last two thousand years have brought about a duality in man such as he never experienced before, and yet the man who dominates this whole period was one who stood for wholeness, one who proclaimed the Holy Ghost. No life in the whole history of man has been so misinterpreted, so woefully misunderstood as Christ‘s. If not a single Man has shown himself capable of following the example of Christ, and doubtless none ever will for we shall no longer have need of Christs, nevertheless this one profound example has altered our climate. Unconsciously we are moving into a new realm of being; what we have brought to perfection, in our zeal to escape the true reality, is a complete arsenal of destruction; when we have rid ourselves of the suicidal mania for a beyond we shall begin the life of here and now which is reality and which is sufficient unto itself. We shall have no need for art or religion because we shall be in ourselves a work of art. This is how I interpret realistically what Gutkind has set forth philosophically; this is the way in which man will overcome his broken state. If my statements are not precisely in accord with the text of Gutkind’s thesis, I nevertheless am thoroughly in accord with Gutkind and his view of things. I have felt it my duty not only to set forth his doctrine, but to launch it, and in launching it to augment it, activate it. Any genuine philosophy leads to action and from action back again to wonder, to the enduring fact of mystery. I am one man who can truly say that he has understood and acted upon this profound thought of Gutkind’s —“the stupendous fact that we stand in the midst of reality will always be something far more wonderful than anything we do.”
    • “The Absolute Collective”, an essay first published in The Criterion on The Absolute Collective : A Philosophical Attempt to Overcome Our Broken Stateby Erich Gutkind, as translated by Marjorie Gabain

Henry Miller on Writing (1964)Edit

  • Art is only a means to life, to the life more abundant. It is not in itself the life more abundant. It merely points the way, something which is overlooked not only by the public, but very often by the artist himself. In becoming an end it defeats itself.
  • Things happen or they don’t happen, that’s all. Nothing is accomplished by sweat and struggle. Nearly everything which we call life is just insomnia, an agony because we’ve lost the habit of falling asleep.
  • I blush to think of our origins – our hands are steeped in Blood & Crime. And there is no letup to the slaughter and pillage.
  • The frantic desire to Live, to live at any cost, is not a result of the life rhythm in us, but of the death rhythm.
  • To be generous is to say yes before the man even opens his mouth.
  • I soon learned that one must give up everything and not do anything else but write, that one must write write write.
  • Every man is working out his destiny in his own way and nobody can be of any help except by being kind, generous, and patient.
  • The truly great writer does not want to write. He wants the world to be a place in which he can live the life of the imagination.
  • Writing is Crude hieroglyphs chiseled in pain & sorrow to commemorate an event which is intransmissible.
  • The Happiest peoples, it is said, are those which have no history. Those who have a history, those who have made history seem only to have emphazied through their acomplishments the eternality of struggle. These disappear too eventually, just as those who made no effort, who were content to merely live & enjoy.
  • The Battle is endless…we who babble and froth at the mouth have been at it since eternity.
  • Perhaps the artist is nothing more than the personification of this universal maladjustment, this universal disequilibrium.
  • Whatever I do is done out of sheer joy; I drop my fruits like a ripe tree. What the general reader or the critic makes of them is not my concern.
  • The whole damn universe has to be taken apart, brick by brick, and reconstructed.
  • I am against revolutions because they always involve a return to the status quo.
  • I am glad to be a maggot in the corpse which is the world.
  • Everything remains unsettled forever, depend on it.
  • The artist who becomes thoroughly aware consequently ceases to be one.
  • The trouble with Buddhism ?– in order to free oneself of all desire, one has to desire to do so.

My Bike & Other Friends (1977)Edit

Political leaders are never leaders. For leaders we have to look to the Awakeners! Lao Tse, Buddha, Socrates, Jesus, Milarepa, Gurdjiev, Krishnamurti.

Reflections (1981)Edit

Gurdjieff was one of the most mysterious figures of the twentieth century. His writing was incomprehensible to me, yet I feel I know him intimately because of a delectable book titled, Boyhood With Gurdjieff by Fritz Peters

I venerate van Gogh. He was a remarkable human being, a man who knew about love. His work reflects a spirit filled with light, even though his life was a tragedy in many ways.

  • Emma Goldman. I had nothing but admiration for her. Those speeches she made on behalf of the working man, Jesus! She could inflame you, incite you to riot, [-] Goldman and Berkman, decided to assassinate the head of a big steel company, an industrial magnate named Frick. Well, they decided a gun would be the quickest and most efficient way, but they had the problem of not having enough money to buy one. So, Goldman thinks she’ll have to prostitute herself to get the money. She dresses up and fixes herself up in a horrible way. She had no sense whatever in that regard. She stations herself on the street, waiting for customers, and all the while she’s looking hideous, monstrous. The first man who approaches her is a gentleman, well dressed, well educated and the like. She tells him everything, all about her work, her beliefs, and even about the assassination plot. The man was completely intrigued with her stories, he wasn’t at all interested in fucking her. He handed her a good sum of money [-] Needless to say, she had a profound effect on the lives of nearly everyone who came into contact with her. She was an exceptional figure.
  • The Gnostics thought the planet Earth was a cosmic mistake. I too feel that way — I’m through with this Earth before I’ve even departed from it.
  • One day, during one of their sessions, Gurdjieff tells Peters to look out the window and describe what he sees. ‘An oak tree’ the child answers. ‘And what do you see on the oak tree?’ ‘Acorns’ Peters replies. ‘How many of these acorns do you suppose will become trees?’ Fritz Peters is stumped, [-] ‘Maybe five or six?’
    ‘No’ retorts Gurdjieff. ‘Only one will become a tree, perhaps, none! Nature is always very giving, but it only gives possibility. It takes hard work and great effort to become a tree or a genuine man.’
  • I venerate van Gogh. He was a remarkable human being, a man who knew about love. His work reflects a spirit filled with light, even though his life was a tragedy in many ways.
  • Vlaminck and Utrillo were very good friends, drinking buddies. One day they attend a funeral. They’re walking behind the hearse in a procession, and they’re having a great time conversing with one another. They are completely engrossed when suddenly one asks the other, ‘Say, don’t you smell something funny?’ They look up and they’re walking behind a garbage truck! They’d lost the hearse in the middle of their enthusiastic conversation.
  • There was one artist who wrote as beautifully as he painted. That was Hokusai– He speaks for all artists, whether they are painters or not. [He wrote]: “I have been in love with painting ever since I became conscious of it at the age of six. I drew some pictures I thought fairly good when I was fifty, but really nothing I did before the age of seventy was of any value at all. At seventy three I have at last caught every aspect of nature-birds,fish,animals,insects,trees,grasses, all. When I am eighty I shall have developed still further. And I will really master the secrets of art at ninety. When I reach a hundred my work will be truly sublime, and my final goal will be attained around the age of one hundred and ten, when every line and dot I draw will be imbued with life.”
  • The pygmies are one of the most cultured peoples on the face of the earth. They live a wonderful life, a life of purity. Not only are they busy and productive, they’re happy and healthy as well. If we puny Americans had to live under their conditions, we’d perish in a day. Modern man has much to learn from the people he calls ‘savages’. Before we are down to the last blade of grass it would be wise to study the life of the Pygmies. The secret of our own survival rests with them, the people who know how to make the most out of very little and find complete happiness with the bare essentials.
  • I’ve spoken many times about the Japanese woman. I’ve praised her again and again. But I have to tell you that I think the Japanese man is the worst. The women are such delicate creatures and they’re treated abominably by the men. The Japanese men are pigs – even worse than American men.
  • More than anything the French have a profound knowledge of the ways of life. They possess a tolerance and an acceptance of the way things are. Problems are faced with intelligence, patience, and a sense of humanity. I have more respect for them than any other nationality on the face of the earth.
  • As far as Bach is concerned, I never came close to liking him [-] My favourite composer is Scriabin -[and] his Fifth sonata, in my mind, the greatest piece of music ever written.
  • Wagner wrote an opera titled Tristan and Yseult and in it there is a theme called Love Death theme. It is so sensual, so sexual that he was criticized for having introduced sex into music. And that was quite a few years before the appearance of Elvis Presley!
  • The man who doesn’t respond to music, the man without music in his soul is not to be trusted. A man like that is cold and empty, empty to the core.
  • Through it all I learned the value of being humble to the dust, reduced to ashes. Everyone should experience that. Before you can recognize you’re somebody, you have to know you’re nobody. [-] The butterfly was just a lowly worm in its beginning. The worm didn’t live with the moment-to-moment expectation of sprouting wings and taking flight. He lived a useful and productive life, the life of a worm. And he had to die a worm in order to be born as an angel! The spinning of the cocoon is, in and of itself, remarkable. It is as wondrous as the emergence and first flight of the butterfly.
  • I tell you, struggle is what is missing in the lives of most young people today. If they think I’m going to support them while they create great works of art, then they’ve missed the point of my work, of my life! In the process of becoming a writer or an artist one has to be willing to starve. Struggle is the most invaluable experience of all. Suffering seems to be the inevitable fate of the creative sensitive types. Poverty, disease, death, unrequited love affairs, and disappointments of every sort fan the flame of the artistic spirit. The greatest works of art were not created by spoiled brats. They were born for the most part out of a sense of despair, and if not despair then just plain hard work. Somewhere along the line the artist learns the art of transformation.

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Kim Cooper’s “The Kept Girl”: Presenting: The Raymond Chandler Map of Los Angeles, a guide to the usual & unusual


Kim Cooper's "The Kept Girl"

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Tuesday, September 30, 2014

Presenting: The Raymond Chandler Map of Los Angeles, a guide to the usual & unusual

What a kick it is to announce the publication of my second collaboration with Paul Rogers, a fold-out map of the city where Raymond Chandler lived and wrote. Paul slyly tells the tale of the project’s genesis here. It is published by Herb Lester. If you’d like to purchase the map from me, click here. Also available: my novel featuring the young Chandler, The Kept Girl (Paul Rogers’ and my firstcollaboration), or the vintage 1985 Aaron Blake Chandler map. Amazon also carries the new map, and Herb Lesterdoes, too.

ABOUT THE RAYMOND CHANDLER MAP: The map’s graphic style is inspired by the Dell Map Backs — a series of cheap paperbacks issued between 1943 and 1951, most featuring a crime scene map on the back cover. It mixes locations from the books, the films and Chandler’s personal life. There’s the crummy dive where Moose Malloy went looking for Velma (Murder, My Sweet / Farewell, My Lovely); the actual lounge where Marlowe and Terry Lennox ordered gimlets (The Long Goodbye); the top-floor suite where oil executive Chandler got his priceless education in how a dirty, sun-drenched city really operated. It’s an insider’s guide to the city Chandler knew, and can still be visited today.

Paul selected fifty iconic locations and designed the handsome two-sided map with its evocative spot illustrations: neon signs, lonesome cocktails, towering palms, rain-drenched death houses, and alternate covers for each of Chandler’s novels. I wrote the accompanying narrative, fifty pocket entries revealing unexpected lore about the real-life inspirations behind Chandler’s fictional crimes and how the writer navigated Philip Marlowe’s city.

With map in hand, an armchair tourist can follow Philip Marlowe’s investigations from Downtown to Hollywood, to the fictional Bay City (Santa Monica) and Idle Valley (Encino). Or they can hop into the car and visit some of the 27 actual locations — each one handily marked with Raymond Chandler’s spectacles — or one of fifteen places where the writer lived. And four times a year, they can consult the map while joining me on an Esotouric bus adventure through Raymond Chandler’s Los Angeles, comparing the real places to Paul Rogers’ Art Deco illustrations.

The Raymond Chandler Map of Los Angeles is a must for fans of Raymond Chandler, Los Angeles architecture, contemporary illustration and the intersections between fact and fiction that color the best in noir literature. Why not make it part of your library today?



1 comment:

  1. P TaylorJuly 23, 2016 at 6:07 PM

    Cool. Great job.




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The Big Goodbye: A Noir Photo Tour of Raymond Chandler’s Los Angeles

THURSDAY, MAY 19, 2016 AT 5:12 P.M.

Gustavo Turner

In 1994, Los Angeles named the intersection of Hollywood and Cahuenga (near one of Philip Marlowe’s fictional private investigator offices) Raymond Chandler Square.

Raymond Chandler’s novels and stories defined a kind of literary noir that made everyone see Los Angeles in a different light. After reading Chandler’s masterpieces, such as The Big Sleep or The Long Goodbye (or his underrated, brilliant novel about Hollywood corruption, The Little Sister), it seems an air of mystique and menace envelops the very architecture of the city. If we look closely, as this photo essay shows, we can still glimpse Chandler’s noir Los Angeles in details and moods. But for how long? Gentrification (in the form of “Business Improvement Districts”) is proceeding at a steady pace in downtown and Hollywood, and many of the classic buildings are being completely renovated (or torn down). Experience this fascinating facet of our city before it’s too late. (We recommend the book Raymond Chandler’s Los Angeles, by Elizabeth Ward and Alain Silver, the wonderful Raymond Chandler Map of Los Angeles by Kim Cooper, Paul Rogers and Herb Lester Associates, and the peerless Esotouric bus tour of Chandler-related sites.) All photos by Gustavo Turner(Instagram: @gustavoturner)

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Watch “The Big Sleep Raymond Chandler Audiobook VDMT” on YouTube


It was about eleven o’clock in the morning, mid October, with the sun not shining and a look of hard wet rain in the clearness of the foothills. I was wearing my powder-blue suit, with dark blue shirt, tie and display handkerchief, black brogues, black wool socks with dark blue clocks on them. I was neat, clean, shaved and sober, and I didn’t care who knew it. I was everything the well-dressed private detective ought to be. I was calling on four million dollars.

The main hallway of the Sternwood place was two stories high. Over the entrance doors, which would have let in a troop of Indian elephants, there was a broad stained-glass panel showing a knight in dark armor rescuing a lady who was tied to a tree and didn’t have any clothes on but some very long and convenient hair. The knight had pushed the vizor of his helmet back to be sociable, and he was fiddling with the knots on the ropes that tied the lady to the tree and not getting anywhere. I stood there and thought that if I lived in the house, I would sooner or later have to climb up there and help him. He didn’t seem to be really trying.

There were French doors at the back of the hall, beyond them a wide sweep of emerald grass to a white garage, in front of which a slim dark young chauffeur in shiny black leggings was dusting a maroon Packard convertible. Beyond the garage were some decorative trees trimmed as carefully as poodle dogs. Beyond them a large greenhouse with a domed roof. Then more trees and beyond everything the solid, uneven, comfortable line of the foothills.

On the east side of the hall a free staircase, tile-paved, rose to a gallery with a wrought-iron railing and another piece of stained-glass romance. Large hard chairs with rounded red plush seats were backed into the vacant spaces of the wall round about. They didn’t look as if anybody had ever sat in them. In the middle of the west wall there was a big empty fireplace with a brass screen in four hinged panels, and over the fireplace a marble mantel with cupids at the corners. Above the mantel there was a large oil portrait, and above the portrait two bullet-torn or moth-eaten cavalry pennants crossed in a glass frame. The portrait was a stiffly posed job of an officer in full regimentals of about the time of the Mexican war. The officer had a neat black imperial, black mustachios, hot hard coal-black eyes, and the general look of a man it would pay to get along with. I thought this might be General Sternwood’s grandfather. It could hardly be the General himself, even though I had heard he was pretty far gone in years to have a couple of daughters still in the dangerous twenties.

I was still staring at the hot black eyes when a door opened far back under the stairs. It wasn’t the butler coming back. It was a girl.

She was twenty or so, small and delicately put together, but she looked durable. She wore pale blue slacks and they looked well on her. She walked as if she were floating. Her hair was a fine tawny wave cut much shorter than the current fashion of pageboy tresses curled in at the bottom. Her eyes were slate-gray, and had almost no expression when they looked at me. She came over near me and smiled with her mouth and she had little sharp predatory teeth, as white as fresh orange pith and as shiny as porcelain. They glistened between her thin too taut lips. Her face lacked color and didn’t look too healthy.

“Tall, aren’t you?” she said.

“I didn’t mean to be.”

Her eyes rounded. She was puzzled. She was thinking. I could see, even on that short acquaintance, that thinking was always going to be a bother to her.

“Handsome too,” she said. “And I bet you know it.”

I grunted.

“What’s your name?”

“Reilly,” I said. “Doghouse Reilly.”

“That’s a funny name.” She bit her lip and turned her head a little and looked at me along her eyes. Then she lowered her lashes until they almost cuddled her cheeks and slowly raised them again, like a theater curtain. I was to get to know that trick. That was supposed to make me roll over on my back with all four paws in the air.

“Are you a prizefighter?” she asked, when I didn’t.

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