Here's an issue I keep having with books from this time period and culture: I love them until I really can't stand them at all. Maybe the characters' constant drinking is somehow vicariously dulling my senses. Events and characters begin to blend together without making distinctive impressions. Nothing seems to matter to the characters, so nothing matters to me. The story concludes, and I think, well, that was fine.

The Thin Man is a hardboiled murder mystery starring Nick Charles, a wealthy retired detective, and his wealthy young wife, Nora. Nick's wealthy former client Clyde Wynant has disappeared, leaving a dead young mistress in his wake. Who killed her? A whole group of wealthy alcoholics are the primary suspects, and despite his desire to stay out of the whole ordeal, Nick keeps getting dragged into it.

I find that novels about the culture of opulence and alcoholism in the American 1920s-30s have a peculiar, singular feeling. Nick Charles' society has a quality of transience, a light ease that allows the characters to brush off infidelity, accusations, and even being shot. No one particularly cares about themselves or anyone else. I go into novels from this time period feeling excited to immerse myself in the lazy, uncaringly destructive lives of the rich, but I quickly tire of the culture, wishing someone would just please give a shit about SOMETHING. So despite the banter and creativity of this novel, I cannot say that I enjoyed it.