"What did it matter where you lay once you were dead? - - 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."

Endless rain, the oppressive smell of orchids, shadows on the walls, cigarette smoke, orange groves, oil fields, guns, and beautiful women fluttering their eyelashes. Chandler's novels are noir blueprints for good reason. The plot of The Big Sleep is convoluted but it's the one I care the least about. It's the mood, the razor sharp dialogue, the milieu, and the funny parts that jump from around the corner to surprise you that elevate this to a more literary crime novel than you'd expect. It demands to be taken seriously, but at the same time it doesn't care whether you like it or not. Above all, it has style and depth that nobody can duplicate.

Marlowe, our beloved private dick himself, is sharp, witty, a little cynical, and a bit boozy like Chandler. He lies in bed, drinks, works, stares at the ceiling, repeat. We don't really have to know that much about his past or his personal issues, because he's compelling enough without stretching the novel into a relationship drama. Sure, he doesn't always do things in the most conventional way, but he's a professional and definitely better than the corrupt police force of 1930s LA. The world is a tough and slimy current of pollution, but Marlowe swims in it with a glass of whiskey in hand.