On 11 June 2001, Anders Engwall (ERA) wrote:
: Now, TASTE OF ASHES is something else. If Browne's
reputation should
: rest on one single novel, this is it. There are a couple of
obvious
: surface differences to the Halo books; there are
considerably fewer --
: if any -- Chandlerisms and there are none of those almost
silly plot
: points. But deeper and more important is the change in
mood. There is
: a seriousness to ASHES that just was not there in the Halo
books.
: Where the Halos merely entertained, ASHES really grabbed
me.
I just read THE TASTE OF ASHES, and I agree it's great. Very
much in the Chandler mode, but a post-Chandler work even
though it came out in 1957, a year before PLAYBACK. There are
a number of references to how things are in books, and some
standard slang is questioned as being out of date. This is
classic piece of hardboiled fiction on all counts: the noble
detective, the town controlled by a rich family, the gorgeous
women, the drinking, the emptiness, the cops, the gangsters,
the alcohol, but Browne knows how it fits into the genre. He
says in the intro to Dennis McMillan's edition, "With the
publication, in 1949, of the third Paul Pine novel, HALO IN
BRASS, I felt that I had gone as far as I could in the
private eye genre. I had become increasingly aware that the
format was as stylized and predictable as an Indian rain
dance and no longer the kind of writing I wanted to do." When
his editor asked him for another one eight years later,
though, he did it and it went smoothly and he thought it was
the best Pine of them all.
Here's a bit from chapter eight that I liked, especially
because Toronto's very hot right now:
| Time to rest, time to put aside the cares and tensions, to
pick up a
| little shut-eye. Only there was too much in me that had
sharp edges and
| a gritty feel. Too much that was anger and frustration and
the savage
| memories of the night. A body and too much blood and a
woman's small
| shuddering cry. A cop in a swivel-chair, his face a dull
red, his eyes
| evasive. The knowledge that cities are run like cities and
not
| germ-free sections of Utopia. Crimes--even crimes the size
of
| murder--swept under the municipal rug because somebody
upstairs wanted
| them hidden for reasons of his own. The Fix. Always the
Fix.
|
| Traffic sounds filtered in through the screened window and
died on the
| floor. The world was awake and up and out. But not Pine. He
was safe
| abed, nursing his wounded ideals, dwelling on the flaws of
Life. Think
| nothing of it, pal. Get on out and make the big money, eat
the rich
| food, sleep with the pretty girls. Like the man says, it's
a world you
| never made.
|
| The bedside clock ticked away. The heat grew slowly
unbearable. In the
| kitchen, the icebox lurched and whined. And then I was out
of bed and
| getting dressed and drinking my coffee, and by nine o'clock
I was behind
| the wheel of the Plymouth on my way downtown.
Bill
-- William Denton : Toronto, Canada : http://www.miskatonic.org/ : Caveat lector.
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