tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19281041684660835452024-02-08T08:01:11.997-08:00Trouble Is My Businessneonspecshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02064103405855741897noreply@blogger.comBlogger60125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1928104168466083545.post-75319434601550176512011-04-01T20:19:00.001-07:002011-04-01T20:19:29.085-07:00Interesting info from wordsmith<h3> shamus </h3><br />
<div style="color: #aaaaaa; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 13px; font-weight: bold;">PRONUNCIATION:</div>(SHAH-muhs, SHAY-) <a href="http://wordsmith.org/words/shamus.mp3" rel="nofollow" target="_blank"><img align="top" alt="" border="0" height="24" src="http://wordsmith.org/words/images/sound-icon.png" width="32" /></a> <br />
<div style="color: #aaaaaa; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 13px; font-weight: bold;">MEANING:</div><i>noun</i>:<br />
1. A <span class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1301714117_9">private detective</span>.<br />
2. A police officer. <br />
<br />
<div style="color: #aaaaaa; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 13px; font-weight: bold;">ETYMOLOGY:</div>Perhaps from Yiddish shames/shammes (sexton, a caretaker at a synagogue), from Hebrew shamash (servant). The spelling of the word has altered from the influence of the Celtic name Seamus (equivalent to James) as many police officers in the US at the time, especially in <span class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1301714117_10" style="background: none repeat scroll 0% 0% transparent; cursor: pointer;">New York</span>, were Irish. First recorded use: 1925.neonspecshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02064103405855741897noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1928104168466083545.post-24649096632157041082011-03-06T13:46:00.001-08:002011-03-06T13:46:46.518-08:00McShane: "Life of R. Chandler," p. 200<blockquote style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">The lonely Chandler needs friendship, but he's not going to get it. He knows too much about it, how tenuous it is, how much a matter of convenience.</span></blockquote>neonspecshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02064103405855741897noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1928104168466083545.post-82826079219027587932011-03-06T13:44:00.000-08:002011-03-06T13:44:50.360-08:00The Lady in the Lake, p. 542 (2)<blockquote style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">a small oval lake deep in trees and rocks and wild grass, like a drop of dew caught in a curled leaf.</span></blockquote>neonspecshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02064103405855741897noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1928104168466083545.post-71694193466832528082011-03-06T13:42:00.001-08:002011-03-06T13:42:33.268-08:00The Lady in the Lake, p. 542<blockquote style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">through a maze of black oak trees and ironwood and manzanita and silence. </span></blockquote><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br />
</span></div>neonspecshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02064103405855741897noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1928104168466083545.post-36991418148869230172011-03-06T13:40:00.000-08:002011-03-06T13:40:51.417-08:00Farewell, My Lovely, p. 279<blockquote style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">...and I held them for a moment and then let go slowly as you let go of a dream when you wake with the sun in your face and have been in an enchanted valley.</span></blockquote>neonspecshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02064103405855741897noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1928104168466083545.post-59628034995340642202009-10-28T23:37:00.000-07:002009-10-28T23:41:49.567-07:00The Blue Dahlia, p. 134 (Afterword)<span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:georgia;">About "Miss Moronica Lake:"</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;"><blockquote>The only times she's good is when she keeps her mouth shut and looks mysterious.</blockquote></span><br /></span>neonspecshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02064103405855741897noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1928104168466083545.post-57946903915300775502009-10-24T16:45:00.001-07:002009-10-24T16:46:29.460-07:00The Blue Dahlia, p. 28<blockquote><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Just don't get too complicated, Eddie. When a guy gets too complicated he's unhappy. And when he's unhappy--his luck runs out... .</span><br /></span></blockquote>neonspecshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02064103405855741897noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1928104168466083545.post-86697367974706517552009-10-22T14:46:00.000-07:002009-10-22T14:49:59.206-07:00Chandler: [John Houseman: "Lost Fortnight" (The Blue Dahlia, pg. xxi)]<blockquote><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I have had a lot of fun with the American language; it has fascinating idioms, is constantly creative, very much like</span></span> <span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">the English of Shakespeare's time, its slang and argot is wonderful, and so on.</span></span><span style="font-size: 85%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></span><br /></blockquote>neonspecshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02064103405855741897noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1928104168466083545.post-45883689555495630682009-10-21T23:27:00.000-07:002009-10-21T23:30:23.615-07:00John Houseman: "Lost Fortnight" (The Blue Dahlia, pg. xi)<span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><blockquote>...the long thin line of La Cienega (before it became the Fifty-seventh Street of the West) stretching directly ahead...</blockquote></span><br /></span>neonspecshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02064103405855741897noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1928104168466083545.post-74193091752456161422009-10-17T16:36:00.000-07:002009-10-17T16:36:00.449-07:00Farewell, My Lovely, 251<span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:georgia;"><blockquote>At the end he thought and then spoke slowly and what he said had wisps of fog clinging to it, like the beads on a mustache. Maybe that made it seem wiser than it was, maybe not. </blockquote></span> </span>neonspecshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02064103405855741897noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1928104168466083545.post-65056561577000669442009-10-16T20:09:00.000-07:002009-10-16T20:09:00.373-07:00"Bay City Blues," p. 241 (from Killer in the Rain, 2nd printing)<blockquote><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">The road twisted, dipped, soared along the flank of the foothills, a scatter of lights to the northwest and a carpet of them to the south. The three piers seemed remote from this point, thin pencils of light laid out on a pad of black velvet.</span><br /></span></blockquote>neonspecshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02064103405855741897noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1928104168466083545.post-47697107591305497692009-10-15T20:04:00.000-07:002009-10-15T20:04:00.653-07:00"Bay City Blues," p. 242 (from Killer in the Rain, 2nd printing)<blockquote><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">The lobby--they called it a foyer--looked like an MGM set for a night club in the Broadway Melody of 1980.</span><br /></span></blockquote>neonspecshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02064103405855741897noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1928104168466083545.post-1384215552915615472009-10-15T08:01:00.000-07:002009-10-15T08:01:00.326-07:00"Bay City Blues," p. 264 (from Killer in the Rain, 2nd printing)<blockquote><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >It was cold up their in the hills, but the air was clear and the stars were like pieces of polished chromium.<br /></span></blockquote>neonspecshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02064103405855741897noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1928104168466083545.post-23751113436262738742009-10-14T19:59:00.000-07:002009-10-14T19:59:00.288-07:00"Bay City Blues," p. 278 (from Killer in the Rain, 2nd printing)<blockquote><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">It looked like somebody was going to open up the Austrian Case wide enough for the mayor to think it was a new boulevard and come out with a bunch of flowers and make a speech.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">(sounds like some other mayor I know, eh?)</span><br /></span></span></blockquote>neonspecshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02064103405855741897noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1928104168466083545.post-49463050633371143252009-10-14T07:52:00.000-07:002009-10-14T07:52:00.350-07:00"Mandarin's Jade" p.170 (from Killer in the Rain, 2nd printing)<span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></span><blockquote><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">--and the general look of a guy who would wear white flannel suit with a violet satin scarf inside the collar.</span></span></blockquote>neonspecshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02064103405855741897noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1928104168466083545.post-13820169686025881642009-10-13T19:49:00.000-07:002009-10-13T19:53:57.507-07:00"Bay City Blues," p. 238 (from Killer in the Rain, 2nd printing)<span style="font-family:georgia;"></span><blockquote><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:georgia;">He giggled from sudden strain and nervousness and shock--very little from amusement.</span></span></blockquote>neonspecshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02064103405855741897noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1928104168466083545.post-48174153858063194122009-02-24T21:49:00.000-08:002009-02-24T21:49:00.792-08:00The Notebooks of Raymond Chandler, p. 74<span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></span><blockquote><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I am no superb technician or inexorable scene-squeezer like Billy Wilder. I am the man who produces the raw material on which the superb technique can be exercised, the man who writes the scenes that wait to be squeezed. If I were more, I should also be less, and the more I should be would, from my point of view, not be worth the less I should be. </span></span></blockquote>neonspecshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02064103405855741897noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1928104168466083545.post-65434556627339640782009-02-23T21:44:00.000-08:002009-02-23T21:44:00.236-08:00The Notebooks of Raymond Chandler, p. 73<span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></span><blockquote><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Would it surprise...that the screenwriter regards the camera as his principal character, and that if he did not write a part for that character he would not be writing a screenplay? He doesn't write in camera movements for the benefit of the director or the cameraman, but for his own benefit: so that he may have some knowledge of the acting length of the script; so that he may leave out of his dialogue those effects which the camera can better achieve without words; so that he may have some feeling for the rhythm and pace and movement of the film across the screen. The writer knows perfectly well that the director will not follow his camera directions literally.</span></span></blockquote>neonspecshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02064103405855741897noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1928104168466083545.post-28885164494404797432009-02-22T21:36:00.000-08:002009-02-22T21:36:00.460-08:00The Notebooks of Raymond Chandler, p. 70<blockquote style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;">There is probably no facet of American life which you can accurately portray, but you can photograph Clark Gable in his underpants, you can dissolve out on an adulterous kiss, and you can be more obscene by implication than the forthright smut talk of soldiers in a barrack room. The terminal result of this straightjacket Grundyism is intellectual lethargy and paralysis of the imagination. What's the use of thinking up strong dramatic stories or scenes when you know in advance they are going to turn out as tame as Prudence Penny's recipe for baked custard?</span></blockquote>neonspecshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02064103405855741897noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1928104168466083545.post-21870120915382564602009-02-21T21:30:00.000-08:002009-10-13T20:07:24.269-07:00The Notebooks of Raymond Chandler, p. 69<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3075/2657358488_f0b64d1e3d.jpg?v=0"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 500px; height: 333px;" src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3075/2657358488_f0b64d1e3d.jpg?v=0" alt="" border="0" /></a><blockquote><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">You can't make good pictures without good screenplays, and you can't get good screenplays from people who do not know how to write them, technically speaking, but have been debauched and spoiled by Hollywood to such an extent that technique is all they have left. Technique alone is never enough. You have to have passion. Technique alone is just an embroidered pot holder.</span></span></blockquote><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:georgia;"></span> </span>neonspecshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02064103405855741897noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1928104168466083545.post-44268831859669912032009-02-20T21:29:00.000-08:002009-02-20T21:29:00.426-08:00The Notebooks of Raymond Chandler, p. 69<span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">The dilemma of the critic has always been that if he knows enough to speak with authority, he knows too much to speak with detachment.</span><br /></span>neonspecshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02064103405855741897noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1928104168466083545.post-87355373421978674282009-02-19T21:15:00.000-08:002009-10-13T20:07:16.439-07:00The Notebooks of Raymond Chandler, p. 29<span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><blockquote>"Would you convey my compliments to the purist who reads your proofs and tell him or her that I write a sort of broken-down patois which is something like the way a Swiss waiter talks, and that when I split an infinitive, God damn it, I split it so it will stay split, and when I interrupt the velvety smoothness of my more or less literate syntax with a few sudden words of bar-room vernacular, that is done with the eyes wide open and the mind relaxed but attentive."</blockquote></span><br /><span style="font-style: italic; font-family: georgia;">There's also a really great poem that follows this that is totally worth reading, worth copying, worth hanging up in your room. Really, it's great. Go read it! It's too long for me to type up here.</span><br /><br /></span>neonspecshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02064103405855741897noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1928104168466083545.post-72436735403072760082009-02-19T21:03:00.000-08:002009-02-19T21:10:27.004-08:00The Notebooks of Raymond Chandler, p. 19<span style="font-size:85%;"><a style="font-family: georgia;" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://farm2.static.flickr.com/1104/1200415994_927e2210f0.jpg?v=0"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 500px; height: 375px;" src="http://farm2.static.flickr.com/1104/1200415994_927e2210f0.jpg?v=0" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-family: georgia;"><blockquote>The keynote of American civilization is a sort of warm-hearted vulgarity. The Americans have none of the irony of the English, none of their cool poise, none of their manner. But they do have friendliness. Where an Englishman would give you his card, an American would very likely give you his shirt.</blockquote></span><br /></span>neonspecshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02064103405855741897noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1928104168466083545.post-88654382415287697432009-02-19T20:57:00.000-08:002009-02-19T21:02:48.421-08:00The Notebooks of Raymond Chandler, p. 7<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://farm2.static.flickr.com/1364/1085815885_090458a8ea.jpg?v=0"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 500px; height: 375px;" src="http://farm2.static.flickr.com/1364/1085815885_090458a8ea.jpg?v=0" alt="" border="0" /></a><blockquote><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">There are two kinds of truth: the truth that lights the way and the truth that warms the heart. The first of these is science, and the second is art. ... The truth of art keeps science from becoming inhuman, and the truth of science keeps art from becoming ridiculous.</span></span></blockquote><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:georgia;"></span> </span>neonspecshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02064103405855741897noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1928104168466083545.post-23923732751526913812009-01-17T16:39:00.000-08:002009-01-17T16:40:49.538-08:00Farewell, My Lovely, 271<span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></span><blockquote><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">She hung up, leaving me with a curious feeling of having talked to somebody that didn't exist.</span></span></blockquote>neonspecshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02064103405855741897noreply@blogger.com0