Novella time
So I've been reading some little novellas my neighbor gave me, written by Jim Thompson in the 40s/50s. Very interesting stuff. No fluff, very straightforward, brutal. The novel I just finished reading is called "The nothing man." The story revolves around a newspaperman who works with his commanding officer (presumably from WWII), who lost his penis in the war, who drinks 3-4 5ths of whiskey a day, who over the course of the story develops a split personality. He spends his time needling and prodding people, as the novel says towards the end "riding 'em." Oh... and attempting to kill people.
Starts by knocking his ex-wife (current whore) out with a half empty bottle and setting her on fire. Proceeds to attempt to kill another woman in love with him by breaking her neck with a bottle and throwing her body over the fence of an underfunded dog pound. Finally a publisher links the poems on the bodies to material his ex-wife submitted and extorts him, to which he retorts by shoving 30 pieces of silver (dimes) down her throat and leaving her on a train leaving town.
The novel fits into the old "pulp fiction" genre, so of course it's a murder mystery. *Spoiler warning* So where's the mystery? Well, he turns out not to be the killer. His wife revived, and while trying to put out the fire was killed by the main character's co-worker who was angry that she turned him down for a tumble. The second woman had already overdosed on tranquilizers before he "killed her," deciding life wasn't worth living if she couldn't be with him. And she couldn't "be" with him. The third, well, they don't fully explain it, but you knew something fishy was up with that from the start because she was found dead 30 miles from the train stop, and not from asphyxiation.
What does it all mean? Well, sneaking suspicions aside, nothing, but it's well written in spite of it. My sneaking suspicion, based on the fact he choose a poet/writer as the main character; who happens to speak in an overly flowery manner and likes to befuddle others verbally, that to some extent it's a knock on the more "artistic" writers of the time. Sure, they could run you in circles with verbosity, but they never actually accomplished what they set out to do, being rather more interested in proving to you their superior intellect. Long overly-complex extendedly-metaphorical thematic undertones buried under pages of descriptive muck... yah... I like that reading.
Starts by knocking his ex-wife (current whore) out with a half empty bottle and setting her on fire. Proceeds to attempt to kill another woman in love with him by breaking her neck with a bottle and throwing her body over the fence of an underfunded dog pound. Finally a publisher links the poems on the bodies to material his ex-wife submitted and extorts him, to which he retorts by shoving 30 pieces of silver (dimes) down her throat and leaving her on a train leaving town.
The novel fits into the old "pulp fiction" genre, so of course it's a murder mystery. *Spoiler warning* So where's the mystery? Well, he turns out not to be the killer. His wife revived, and while trying to put out the fire was killed by the main character's co-worker who was angry that she turned him down for a tumble. The second woman had already overdosed on tranquilizers before he "killed her," deciding life wasn't worth living if she couldn't be with him. And she couldn't "be" with him. The third, well, they don't fully explain it, but you knew something fishy was up with that from the start because she was found dead 30 miles from the train stop, and not from asphyxiation.
What does it all mean? Well, sneaking suspicions aside, nothing, but it's well written in spite of it. My sneaking suspicion, based on the fact he choose a poet/writer as the main character; who happens to speak in an overly flowery manner and likes to befuddle others verbally, that to some extent it's a knock on the more "artistic" writers of the time. Sure, they could run you in circles with verbosity, but they never actually accomplished what they set out to do, being rather more interested in proving to you their superior intellect. Long overly-complex extendedly-metaphorical thematic undertones buried under pages of descriptive muck... yah... I like that reading.