There was a desert wind blowing that night. It was one of those hot dry Santa Anas that come down through the mountain passes and curl your hair and make your nerves jump and your skin itch. On nights like that every booze party ends in a fight. Meek little wives feel the edge of the carving knife and study their husbands' necks. Anything can happen.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
I only came across Raymond Chandler in the past five years and have scooped up everything I can find of his. I really enjoy his rich, descriptive language. Something I came across this week reminded me of his marvellous description of the Santa Ana winds in California.