His voice was the elaborately casual voice of the tough guy in pictures. Pictures have made them all like that.
"So you're a private detective," she said. "I didn't know they really existed, except in books. Or else they were greasy little men snooping around hotels."
He moved his dark eyes up and down slowly and then glanced at his fingernails one by one, holding them up against the light and studying them with care, as Hollywood has taught it should be done.
And while this book certainly has its share of banter and zingers -- "I don't mind your showing me your legs. They're very swell legs and it's a pleasure to make their acquaintance. I don't mind if you don't like my manners. They're pretty bad. I grieve over them during the long winter nights" -- the following passage stood out for its self-deprecation: Chandler knew exactly what he was doing with every word he wrote:
It was a smooth silvery voice that matched her hair. It had a tiny tinkle in it, like bells in a doll's house. I thought that was silly as soon as I thought of it.
The Big Sleep is magic in that it seems like it was easy to write -- it's certainly easy to read, going down as smooth as the General's brandy -- but it's only on reflection that you can recognise the skill and restraint it must have taken to not come off as cartoonish; to make Marlowe a believable and sympathetic character. As I noted before, this tough guy has the heart of a philosopher, and he ends with:
What did it matter where you lay once you were dead? In a dirty sump or in a marble tower on the top of a high hill? You were dead, you were sleeping the big sleep, you were not bothered by things like that. Oil and water were the same as wind and air to you. You just slept the big sleep, not caring about the nastiness of how you died or where you fell. Me, I was part of the nastiness now.
