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The wet air was as cold as the ashes of love.

Raymond Chandler

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Raymond Chandler
Age: 70 †
Born: 1888
Born: July 23
Died: 1959
Died: March 26
Novelist
Poet
Screenwriter
Writer
Chicago
Illinois
Raymond Thornton Chandler
Wet
Ashes
Air
Cold
Love

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From 30 feet away she looked like a lot of class. From 10 feet away she looked like something made up to be seen from 30 feet away.
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It is pretty obvious that the debasement of the human mind caused by a constant flow of fraudulent advertising is no trivial thing. There is more than one way to conquer a country
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A real gimlet is half gin and half Rose's lime juice and nothing else.
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Mostly I just kill time, he said, and it dies hard.
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He snorted and hit me in the solar plexus. I bent over and took hold of the room with both hands and spun it. When I had it nicely spinning I gave it a full swing and hit myself on the back of the head with the floor.
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California, the department store state.
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But nothing seems to do any good.
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There is no trap so deadly as the trap you set for yourself.
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The kind of lawyer you hope the other fellow has.
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The law isn't justice. It's a very imperfect mechanism. If you press exactly the right buttons and are also lucky, justice may show up in the answer. A mechanism is all the law was ever intended to be.
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A man who drinks too much on occasion is still the same man as he was sober. An alcoholic, a real alcoholic, is not the same man at all. You can't predict anything about him for sure except that he will be someone you never met before.
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In everything that can be called art there is a quality of redemption.
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Americans will eat anything if it is toasted and held together with a couple of toothpicks and has lettuce sticking out of the sides, preferably a little wilted.
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You can't have everything, even in California
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He looked about as inconspicuous as a tarantula on a slice of angel food.
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Tall, aren't you? I didn't mean to be.
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California, the department-store state. The most of everything and the best of nothing.
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The growth of populations has in no way increased the amount [of art], it has merely increased the adeptness with which substitutes can be produced and packaged.
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I sat down on the edge of a deep soft chair and looked at Mrs Regan. She was worth a stare. She was trouble.
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I'm killing time and it's dying hard.
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