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And this one is also a bit strange. By form and overall feeling, it is definitely hard-boiled noir-ish stuff. But instead on crime(s) it concentrates entirely on its protagonist. We follow PI Lew Griffin, who specialises (I think) in missing persons cases through the various stages of his life and career spanning from 1964 to 1970, following an episode in 1984 and finally concluding in 1990. The author doesn't really bother to explain what made our guy successful in one period or what drove him into alcoholism and the gutter in another. Individual cases are not related and also not very complicated (or coherent if I'm completely honest), and again, the author doesn't even seem to be interested in plotting.
Sounds strange and disjointed, but it's anything but. At least once, you realise that this is not about whodunnit at all. It's a masterclass in writing, characterisation, atmosphere creating, treating people (and readers) with honesty and respect. Clever and thoughtful stuff that - at least for me - was hardly a page-turner. Quite opposite in fact, as I've read it slowly in the evenings with a cup of tea and not on the bus on my way to work. I just wanted to enjoy it as long as possible, absorb it, and let it sink under my skin.
So my only complaint about it would be that it's too short.
5/5
Facts:
Hero:
Lew Griffin, PI
Location:
New Orleans
New Orleans
Body
count:
3
Dames:
Vicky, the Scottish nurse and LaVerne, his lifelong friend/partner
Blackouts:
The third part (year 1984) starts with "Light: it slammed into my eyes like fists". But we soon learn that he'd just awoken after a binge drinking (the air reeked of alcohol). Still, this can be at least partly considered as unconscious, as we all know how bad those hangovers can be, right?
Vicky, the Scottish nurse and LaVerne, his lifelong friend/partner
Blackouts:
The third part (year 1984) starts with "Light: it slammed into my eyes like fists". But we soon learn that he'd just awoken after a binge drinking (the air reeked of alcohol). Still, this can be at least partly considered as unconscious, as we all know how bad those hangovers can be, right?
Title:
It was pretty much a WTF title until I had asked uncle Google about it, and he explained that this was the title of one of Yeats' poems. You can listen to it here and try to decipher it if you feel like it. But then again, maybe it's not about this poem at all because Sallis plays in a band called Three-Legged Dog, so he may have some weird fixations about animal legs? Nah, just kidding;)
Cover:
Nice one, always cool to see an air conditioner (or elevator) as a metaphor of descent into darkness. Or am I just imagining things, and it just means that it's pretty fucking hot in Lew Griffin's New Orleans?
Cool
lines: It was pretty much a WTF title until I had asked uncle Google about it, and he explained that this was the title of one of Yeats' poems. You can listen to it here and try to decipher it if you feel like it. But then again, maybe it's not about this poem at all because Sallis plays in a band called Three-Legged Dog, so he may have some weird fixations about animal legs? Nah, just kidding;)
Cover:
Nice one, always cool to see an air conditioner (or elevator) as a metaphor of descent into darkness. Or am I just imagining things, and it just means that it's pretty fucking hot in Lew Griffin's New Orleans?
We are not angels, Lew. Angels couldn't breathe the air down here. They'd die.[The Coolest!]