Author: Doug Mortimer
In
the
introduction
to
his
Encyclopedia
Mysteriosa,
William
L.
DeAndrea
lists
a
series
of
assumptions
that
underlie
detective
fiction:
-
That
such
a
thing
as
objective
truth
exists. -
That
it’s
desirable
to
find
out
what
it
is. -
That
it’s
possible
to
find
out
what
the
truth
is. -
That
people
have
a
responsibility
to
their
fellow
beings
not
to
kill
or
hurt
them
or
steal
from
them. -
That
if
people
do
hurt,
kill,
or
steal,
they
should
be
found
and
punished,
or
at
least
forced
to
make
restitution.
When
DeAndrea’s
book
came
out
in
1994,
the
above
was
the
norm,
not
just
for
detective
fiction
but
for
society
at
large.
Today,
however,
we
hear
about
my
truth
or
your
truth
while
the
very
concept
of
objective
truth
is
called
into
question.
Meanwhile,
lawlessness
rules
(or
rather,
misrules)
the
land
and
accountability
means
finger-pointing
at
everyone
but
oneself.
Nevertheless,
I
think
DeAndrea’s
assumptions
still
hold
true
vis-à-vis
the
detective
of
fiction
and
film.
Call
him
what
you
will
–
a
sleuth,
a
gumshoe,
a
shamus,
a
PI,
or
a
keyhole
peeper
–
the
detective’s
stock
in
trade
is
uncovering
or
discovering
the
truth.
Always
a
bit
of
a
loner,
the
detective
was
MGTOW
before
MGTOW
was
cool.
Of
course,
some
feminist
bloggers
and
influencers
would
assert
that
MGTOWs
have
always
been
dicks.
When
I
say
“detective,”
however,
I
am
not
including
all
fictional
protagonists
since
the
beginning
of
the
genre.
Edgar
Allan
Poe
is
often
considered
the
father
of
the
detective
story
(the
annual
awards
for
mysteries
are
known
as
the
Edgar
awards
–
in
fact,
DeAndrea’s
book
won
the
Edgar
for
Best
Critical
or
Biographical
Work
in
1994),
but
his
Parisian
detective
(C.
Auguste
Dupin
of
“Murders
in
the
Rue
Morgue,”
“The
Mystery
of
Marie
Roget,”
and
“The
Purloined
Letter”)
has
little
in
common
with
the
detectives
who
came
along
a
century
or
so
later.
I
would
also
say
the
same
of
Sherlock
Holmes,
Arthur
Conan
Doyle’s
erudite
Victorian,
as
well
as
Hercule
Poirot
and
Miss
Marple,
Agatha
Christie’s
best
known
protagonists.
Christie’s
1939
opus
And
Then
There
Were
None
(the
book
has
an
alternate
title
which
includes
a
word
that
cannot
be
said
in
polite
company)
has
sold
more
than
100
million
copies,
making
it
the
most
popular
mystery
in
publishing
history,
so
it
is
difficult
to
dismiss
her
contribution
to
the
genre.
Her
books,
however,
are
exemplars
of
the
British
whodunnit,
in
which
a
murder
is
just
a
puzzle
to
be
solved.
The
dead
body
itself
is
the
first
clue
and
its
discovery
launches
the
plot.
Against
all
probability
(not
to
mention
crime
statistics),
the
victim
and
the
suspects
are
usually
from
the
more
respectable
tiers
of
society.
On
the
other
hand,
American
detective
stories
feature
tough
guys,
lowlifes
and
floozies!
In
an
Agatha
Christie
novel,
such
people
who
would
be
as
out
of
place
as
a
booger
in
a
cup
of
Earl
Grey
tea.
So
when
I
talk
about
detectives,
I
am
talking
about
good
old-fashioned,
red-blooded,
hard-boiled
American
detectives.
(Feel
free
to
chant
“USA!
USA!
USA!
USA!”)
By
exalting
American
detective
writers,
I
don’t
mean
to
include
all
authors
who
happen
to
have
U.S.
birth
certificates.
No,
I’m
not
talking
about
the
Hardy
Boys
mysteries.
Not
the
Nancy
Drew
mysteries.
And
certainly
not
the
Scooby-Doo
mysteries.
Also,
I
am
not
including
the
DEI
detectives
who
followed
the
classic
MGTOW
detectives.
These
would
include
Walter
Mosley’s
Easy
Rawlins
(black),
Harry
Kemelman’s
Rabbi
Small
(Jewish),
and
Sara
Paretsky’s
V.I
Warshawsky
(female),
who
have
attracted
legions
of
fans
and
spawned
profitable
series
for
their
authors.
You
probably
will
not
be
surprised
to
learn
that
novels
with
queer
and
trans
detectives
are
now
available.
To
a
large
degree
all
of
the
above
are
following
the
trail
blazed
by
the
pantheon
of
authors
from
the
golden
age
(1930s-1940s)
of
hard-boiled
detective
fiction,
which
helped
to
inspire
the
golden
age
of
film
noir
(1940s-1950s).
Perhaps
the
most
renowned
author
of
the
hard-boiled
school
was
Raymond
Chandler,
creator
of
Philip
Marlowe,
protagonist
of
The
Big
Sleep,
The
Long
Goodbye,
The
Lady
in
the
Lake,
and
Farewell,
My
Lovely,
among
others.
Chandler
was
also
something
of
a
theorist
of
the
detective
genre.
In
December
1944,
Chandler,
wrote
an
essay
entitled
“The
Simple
Art
of
Murder”
for
the
Atlantic
magazine.
An
assessment
of
the
state
of
detective
fiction
at
the
time,
it
has
been
cited
often,
perhaps
because
the
works
of
Chandler
as
well
as
his
peers,
notably
Dashiell
Hammett
(The
Maltese
Falcon,
The
Thin
Man)
and
James
M.
Cain
(The
Postman
Always
Rings
Twice,
Double
Indemnity,
Mildred
Pierce),
are
still
read
and
provided
the
raw
(in
some
cases,
really
raw!)
material
for
many
films
that
are
still
shown
at
repertory
cinemas
or
appear
periodically
on
Turner
Classic
Movies.
Chandler
died
in
1959
long
before
MGTOW
was
a
thing,
yet
an
oft-quoted
excerpt
from
his
1944
essay
has
a
contemporary
ring
to
it.
It
almost
sounds
like
a
MGTOW
manifesto:
But
down
these
mean
streets
a
man
must
go
who
is
not
himself
mean,
who
is
neither
tarnished
nor
afraid.
The
detective
in
this
kind
of
story
must
be
such
a
man.
He
is
the
hero;
he
is
everything.
He
must
be
a
complete
man
and
a
common
man
and
yet
an
unusual
man.
He
must
be,
to
use
a
rather
weathered
phrase,
a
man
of
honor
–
by
instinct,
by
inevitability,
without
thought
of
it,
and
certainly
without
saying
it.
He
must
be
the
best
man
in
his
world
and
a
good
enough
man
for
any
world.
The
phrase
“mean
streets,”
of
course
was
the
source
of
the
title
of
the
1973
Martin
Scorsese
movie
about
young
hoods
in
New
York’s
Little
Italy.
This
raises
the
question
of
the
meaning
of
mean.
Clearly,
“mean”
in
the
sense
of
malicious
is
implied,
but
Chandler
might
have
also
meant
in
the
sense
of
small-mindedness.
He
talks
as
the
man
of
his
age
talks
–
that
is,
with
rude
wit,
a
lively
sense
of
the
grotesque,
a
disgust
for
sham,
and
a
contempt
for
pettiness.
The
detective,
in
other
words,
is
in
this
world
but
not
of
this
world.
He
transcends
it
even
as
he
lives
in
it.
In
fact,
you
could
probably
attach
some
quasi-religious
significance
to
such
a
way
of
life.
The
“monk
mode”
school
of
MGTOW
is
not
thar
far
removed
from
the
world
of
the
detective:
The
whole
point
is
that
the
detective
exists
complete
and
entire
and
unchanged
by
anything
that
happens,
that
he
is,
as
detective,
outside
the
story
and
above
it,
and
always
will
be.
That
is
why
he
never
gets
the
girl,
never
marries,
never
really
has
any
private
life,
except
insofar
as
he
must
eat
and
sleep
and
have
a
place
to
leave
his
clothes.
Chandler
was
perhaps
an
unlikely
practitioner
of
hard-boiled
fiction.
Born
in
Chicago
to
Quaker
parents,
he
grew
up
in
Nebraska
but
spent
his
adolescence
in
England
and
received
a
classical
education
at
tony
Dulwich
College.
His
novels
appealed
to
both
British
and
American
readers,
though
his
work
was
more
in
keeping
with
American
taste
in
detective
novels.
Chandler
read
the
work
of
his
competitors
on
both
sides
of
the
pond
and
had
opinions
on
just
about
all
of
them.
While
he
looked
the
part
of
the
proper
English
gentleman,
his
prose
belied
that
image.
In
his
own
words,
Chandler
“was
trying
to
get
murder
away
from
the
upper
classes,
the
week-end
house
party
and
the
vicar’s
rose
garden,
and
back
to
the
people
who
are
really
good
at
it.”
Consequently,
while
his
prose
was
as
polished
as
that
of
his
British
counterparts,
the
style
was
livelier
and
the
dialogue
was
slangier.
“The
English
may
not
always
be
the
best
writers
in
the
world,”
he
observed,
“but
they
are
incomparably
the
best
dull
writers.”
Rooted
in
both
America
and
England,
Chandler
chose
to
return
to
America
as
a
young
man
but
felt
the
call
of
duty
after
the
British
entered
World
War
I.
After
serving
in
the
Canadian
army,
he
settled
in
Los
Angeles
and
went
to
work
in
the
accounting
department
of
an
oil
company.
Eventually,
he
was
promoted
to
Vice-President
but
his
alcoholism
and
the
Great
Depression
consigned
him
to
the
ranks
of
the
unemployed.
A
fan
of
pulp
fiction,
he
felt
he
could
improve
on
what
he
read.
Given
his
circumstances,
attempting
to
launch
a
career
as
a
writer
–
a
high-risk
proposition
even
in
the
best
of
times
–
would
seem
to
be
ill-advised.
In
his
youth
in
England
he
had
published
some
essays
and
poetry,
but
that
was
hardly
a
suitable
training
ground
for
hard-boiled
American
fiction.
Against
all
odds,
he
published
his
first
short
story,
“Blackmailers
Don’t
Shoot,”
in
1933
at
the
age
of
45.
The
protagonist
of
Chandler’s
story
was
named
Mallory.
The
name
derived
from
Thomas
Malory,
the
15th
Century
author
of
Le
Morte
d’Arthur,
the
definitive
narrative
of
the
King
Arthur
legend.
When
Chandler
began
The
Big
Sleep,
his
first
novel,
he
started
out
with
Mallory
as
the
protagonist.
His
wife
convinced
him
to
change
Mallory
to
Marlowe,
perhaps
a
nod
to
playwright
Christopher
Marlowe,
who
followed
Mallory
about
a
century
later.
Since
Marlowe’s
most
famous
play
was
The
Tragicall
History
of
Dr.
Faustus,
it
might
be
that
Chandler
thought
the
morality
play,
the
classic
story
of
a
man
selling
his
soul
to
the
devil,
had
more
relevance
to
the
20th
Century.
Chandler’s
stories
first
appeared
in
Black
Mask,
a
renowned
periodical
that
launched
the
careers
of
a
number
of
purveyors
of
pulp
fiction
(e.g.,
Cornell
Woolrich,
Horace
McCoy,
Erle
Stanley
Gardner),
many
of
whose
works
are
still
in
print.
Black
Mask
was
not
a
publication
designed
to
appeal
to
female
readers.
If
you
were
a
teenager
in
the
1930s
and
your
mother
found
some
Black
Mask
magazines
in
your
room,
she
would
pitch
them
out,
as
surely
as
mothers
in
later
decades
would
trash
comic
books,
Mad
magazine,
or
Famous
Monsters
of
Filmland.
While
tame
by
today’s
standards,
the
sexual
component
of
hard-boiled
fiction
was
troubling
to
those
who
advocated
morally
uplifting
literature.
The
detective,
being
a
normal
male
with
normal
testosterone
levels
(at
least
what
was
considered
normal
before
the
soyboy
era),
had
an
eye
for
hourglass
figures
and
blondes,
not
necessarily
in
that
order.
He
was
attracted
to
women,
dallied
with
them
on
occasion,
yet
never
allowed
them
to
“get”
to
him.
In
current
parlance,
he
was
“emotionally
unavailable.”
According
to
Chandler,
“A
really
good
detective
never
gets
married.
He
would
lose
his
detachment,
and
this
detachment
is
part
of
his
charm.”
In
fact,
in
Chandler’s
fiction,
while
Marlowe
has
an
eye
for
the
ladies,
he
never
gets
laid,
at
least
not
in
the
first
five
novels.
He
saves
himself
for
The
Long
Goodbye
in
1953.
Of
course,
another
red
flag
in
pulp
fiction
was
the
violence,
no
matter
how
logical
it
might
be
in
relation
to
the
storyline.
Though
not
as
brutal
as
his
antagonists
(Mickey
Spillane’s
Mike
Hammer
might
be
an
exception),
the
pulp
fiction
detective
could
both
dish
it
out
and
take
it.
While
some
female
readers
might
get
a
tingle
when
reading
descriptions
of
male-on-male
violence,
they
would
likely
be
aghast
if
their
husbands
or
sons
behaved
that
way.
Male
or
female,
middle-class
readers
found
the
pulp
fiction
detective
story
to
be
something
of
a
guilty
pleasure.
The
reader
could
take
a
walk
on
the
wild
side
without
leaving
his
easy
chair.
No
worries
about
ending
up
a
bloody
mess
in
a
back
alley
or
an
emergency
room!
There
was
no
denying
it
was
escapism
–
but
did
that
preclude
it
from
being
literature?
Chandler
was
51
years
old
when
his
first
novel,
The
Big
Sleep,
was
published
in
1939.
As
each
new
novel
was
published,
he
acquired
more
and
more
fans,
including
“serious”
writers,
such
as
W.H.
Auden,
Graham
Greene,
T.S.
Eliot,
W.
Somerset
Maugham,
Christopher
Isherwood
and
Evelyn
Waugh.
In
France
existentialists
took
an
interest
in
Chandler’s
works
and
some
of
them
noted
that
Philip
Marlowe
was
a
pretty
good
match
for
Albert
Camus’
concept
of
the
absurdist
hero.
It
is
also
possible
that
some
cross-pollination
occurred.
Given
the
time
frame
of
existentialism’s
spread
through
the
intellectual
class,
it
is
not
far-fetched
to
posit
that
a
man
as
well-read
as
Chandler
could
have
been
influenced
by
it.
Come
to
think
of
it,
one
could
hardly
ask
for
a
better
hard-boiled
fiction
title
than
Being
and
Nothingness,
Jean
Paul
Sartre’s
seminal
1943
book.
It
would
be
impossible
to
do
justice
to
the
philosophical/literary
existentialist
movement
in
this
essay
but
if
you’re
looking
for
a
sound
bite
definition,
I
offer
the
following:
Existentialism
is
about
being
a
saint
without
God;
being
your
own
hero,
without
all
the
sanction
and
support
of
religion
or
society.
I
don’t
always
hold
with
Google
definitions,
but
I
must
give
them
credit
for
this
one.
A
Saint
without
God
would
be
another
superb
title
for
a
hard-boiled
novel.
By
conventional
standards,
the
detective/existentialist
may
not
be
virtuous,
but
he
adheres
to
a
code
of
some
sort,
typically
one
he
has
devised
himself.
This,
of
course,
sets
him
apart
not
just
from
most
of
his
fellow
men,
but
all
his
fellow
women
(a
phrase
that
sounds
like
an
oxymoron).
The
herd
instinct
is
stronger
in
the
female,
who
seeks
consensus
even
if
it
clashes
with
the
truth.
She
is
more
likely
to
be
triggered
by
the
truth,
or
to
be
concerned
that
the
truth
might
make
someone
else
uncomfortable.
The
truth
hurts!
So
she
is
more
likely
to
cover
it
up
than
seek
it
out.
Or
she
might
resort
to
her
truth.
Either
way,
even
if
she
slugs
gin
as
readily
as
she
slugs
guys
who
get
too
gropy,
she
is
an
unlikely
hard-boiled
detective.
A
dame
can
investigate
a
mystery
and
maybe
even
solve
it,
but
she
can’t
be
the
protagonist
in
an
American
detective
novel
any
more
than
she
can
be
a
knight
in
an
Arthurian
tale.
The
detective
as
knight
(in
tarnished
if
not
shining)
armor
was
a
theme
recognized
by
many
literary
critics
who
were
fans
of
Chandler’s
work.
In
essence,
Philip
Marlowe
was
a
modern-day
knight
errant
with
a
different
quest
in
every
novel.
Given
Chandler’s
education
during
his
lengthy
British
sojourn,
this
should
not
be
surprising.
Living
in
California
while
he
pursued
his
writing
career,
he
might
have
picked
up
a
few
cues
from
Asian
culture.
If
so,
he
might
have
been
aware
of
the
Japanese
ronin,
a
samurai
without
a
master.
Knight
errant
or
ronin,
each
was
a
man
going
his
own
way.
Ironically,
Chandler
himself
was
not
as
MGTOW
as
his
Mallory/Marlowe
alter
ego.
In
1924,
at
the
age
of
35,
he
married
Cissy
Pascal,
a
53-year-old
divorcee
–
the
stepmother
of
a
friend.
The
marriage
was
her
third,
his
first.
Such
a
union
would
be
unusual
in
any
era,
but
it
has
provided
much
fodder
for
speculation
among
Chandler’s
biographers.
As
a
mama’s
boy
by
default
(his
parents
divorced
when
he
was
seven
and
he
never
saw
his
father
again),
was
Chandler
in
the
market
for
another
mother?
Notably,
he
and
Cissy
postponed
marriage
till
Chandler’s
mother
died.
On
the
other
hand,
Cissy
had
been
a
looker
in
her
youth
–
in
fact
an
artist’s
model
(on
occasion
nude)
and
had
not
let
herself
go.
She
looked
at
least
ten
years
younger
than
her
age
(and
passed
herself
off
as
such
when
she
and
Chandler
tied
the
knot).
Not
surprisingly,
she
was
a
blonde,
strawberry
to
be
exact.
So
the
age
difference
and
her
marital
status
(she
was
married
at
the
time
Chandler
began
his
relationship
with
her)
were
irrelevant.
It
appeared
that
Chandler
had
not
only
met
his
match,
he
had
met
his
muse.
Aside
from
Chandler’s
occasional
bender
or
girl
on
the
side,
domesticity
reigned
in
the
Chandler
household
till
Cissy
died
in
1954.
Afterwards
Chandler
was
inconsolable
and
began
hitting
the
bottle
harder
than
ever.
It
showed
in
his
work.
While
The
Long
Goodbye,
published
one
year
before
Cissy’s
death,
was
often
cited
as
his
best
work,
Playback,
published
in
1958,
is
generally
considered
the
weakest.
It
was
his
only
novel
that
was
never
filmed.
When
Chandler
died
in
1959
he
left
behind
four
chapters
of
an
unfinished
novel
(later
finished
by
Robert
B.
Parker,
a
detective
novelist
who
was
also
an
admirer
of
Chandler)
called
Poodle
Springs,
in
which
Philip
Marlowe
is
not
only
married
he
is
the
husband
of
a
wealthy
socialite,
the
woman
he
fornicated
with
in
The
Long
Goodbye.
They
are
living
not
in
crime-infested
Los
Angeles
but
in
the
chi-chi
resort
town
of
Palm
Springs.
And
that
was
Chandler’s
final
word
on
Philip
Marlowe
–
a
kept
man!
It
was
the
equivalent
of
a
hard-core
MGTOW
getting
married
–
and
adopting
his
wife’s
last
name!
Thankfully,
that
is
not
the
way
Philip
Marlowe
is
remembered.
“The
detective
by
tradition
and
definition
is
the
seeker
after
truth,”
noted
Chandler.
Yet
30
years
after
DeAndrea’s
encyclopedia
was
published,
and
80
years
after
Chandler’s
essay
on
“The
Simple
Art
of
Murder”
appeared,
the
truth
is
more
elusive
than
ever.
Even
if
discovered
via
investigation,
it
may
not
come
to
light,
as
it
may
conflict
with
the
consensus
or
the
narrative
or
the
official
story.
Nevertheless,
more
and
more
men
are
going
their
own
way,
which
often
takes
them
down
mean
streets
peopled
not
just
with
the
traditional
goons,
grifters,
and
doxies,
but
with
feminists,
Karens,
body
positivity
activists,
and
gender
studies
majors.
The
streets
are
a
lot
meaner
–
and
uncleaner
–
than
they
were
in
1944.
But
they’re
the
only
streets
we’ve
got.
Original Story on AVFM
These stories are from AVoiceForMen.com.
(Changing the cultural narrative)