Moth (James Sallis, 1993)

I'm not sure why, but I expected the second Lew Griffin book to be more classically structured than the first one. Don't get me wrong: I loved The Long-Legged Fly, and all I'm saying is that strictly speaking, it isn't exactly a crime/mystery novel; it's more about putting Lew Griffin and his ugly yet poetic New Orleans on the map of crime novels. I was also hoping that LaVerne would be involved in some way in the next one. I usually don't fall for the "hooker with a heart of gold" cliche, but she was such a great character.

Nope. Moth simply continues where Fly had ended. Chronologically as well as stylishly. A pretty fragmented and wild storyline that frequently (especially at the beginning) jumps back and forth in time and digresses from the main plot to Griffin's private life. And since the main plot (can we even call it a "case"?) involves a personal matter of finding LaVern's junkie daughter, these flashbacks and episodes aren't distracting and complement the main story nicely. And btw - my heroine died sometime between Fly and Moth. Damn, I raise this pint of Guinness to her memory.

Great and enjoyable read, masterfully written. Maybe a bit repetitive at times (I could do without a few book references for sure) and definitely too fucking depressing. I have nothing whatsoever against the realism (everyone should read Pedro Juan Gutiérrez btw!), but stuff like a guy fucking his one-year-old daughter and afterwards slamming her head against the wall "so she wouldn't tell"... is a bit too much, even for me.

So I need some time for this one to sink in, and then I'm definitely resuming with following Lew Griffin's fascinating life story.

4.5/5

Facts:

Hero:
Lew Griffin, (ex? part-time?) detective, writer and college professor these days

"He told me if he sent you out to the corner for a paper, chances would be about fifty-fifty of his actually getting one, but that he'd trust you with his life. One of your stranger character references."

Location: 
New Orleans, Clarksville, Memphis

Body count: 
Hard to measure it this time. There were quite a few dead people, from a crack baby to some anonymous girl gang-raped and left dead in a dark alley. But none of them is really connected to the case. Because there really is no case...

Dames:
Alouette, LaVerne's daughter.

Blackouts: 
He's shot in the arm and passes out.

Title: 
Another poetic one, this time from the verses of  James Wright:
Further, the dark moths
Crouch at the sills of the earth, waiting.

Not sure how to decipher it.  A simple explanation would be that the moth symbolises a lost person (Lew or Alouette) that is irresistibly drawn to something they cannot escape and which will eventually burn them to death. 

Cover: 
Why do women look so incredibly cool when smoking in b&w photos? This one reminds me a lot of Anna Karina from Vivre Sa Vie.

Cool lines:  
"Ain't here," he said after a moment.
"Thank you. But allow me to make an assumption; possibly unwarranted, from that. To wit: that she was, at some unspecified point in the past, been here, though she is not presently."
"Say what?"

I stepped back into the living room and discovered that the .38 was no longer under the cushion. It was now in someone's hand, and pointed at me.

The Long-Legged Fly (James Sallis, 1992)

James Sallis wrote a foreword to Derek Raymond's He Died with his Eyes Open, which I really liked. It is a good and honest text, full of (deserved) admiration for that strange novel. So that aroused a bit of curiosity in me, together with the fact that he also wrote a Chester Himes' biography, which is now pretty high on my to-do list. I've heard of Sallis before, of course, and have seen his books in bookstores, but somehow never got around to reading any of his stuff. At least I wasn't sure about it until I had read The Long-Legged Fly. Now I know for sure that I haven't read him because I would surely have remembered such a brilliant and unique style of writing.

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

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?

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:  
We are not angels, Lew. Angels couldn't breathe the air down here. They'd die.[The Coolest!]