Skip to content

Filippo Marlowe

30 October, 2012
Filippo Marlowe

Bologna (March 2011)

This seems a perfect opportunity to share a gem from the Author’s favorite private dective, Philip Marlowe.  

In The Long GoodbyeMarlowe muses on the  various types of blondes out there.  As a blonde, the Author is more amused than insulted at these thorough classifications (and can’t help but wonder what kind of blonde Marlowe would consider her to be).

“There are blonds and blondes and it is almost a joke word nowadays.  All blondes have their points, except perhaps the metallic ones who are as blond as a Zulu under the bleach and as to disposition as soft as a sidewalk. There is the small cute blonde, who cheeps and twitters, and the big statueque blond who straight-arms you with the ice-blue glare. There is the blonde who gives you the up-from-under look and smells lovely and shimmers and hangs on your arms and is always very very tired when you take her home. She makes that helpless gesture and has that goddamned headache and you would like to slug her excpet that you are glad you found out about the headache before you invested too much time and money and hope in her. Because the headache will always be there, a weapon that never wears out and is as deadly as the bravo’s rapier or Lucrezia’s poison vial.

There is the soft and willing and alcoholic blond who doesn’t care what she wears as long as it is mink and where she goes as long as it is the Starlight Roof and there is plenty of dry champagne.  There is the small perky blonde who is a little pal and wants to pay her own way and is full of sunshine and common sense and knows judo from the ground up and can toss a truck driver over her shoulder without missing more than one sentance out of the editorial in the Saturday Review. There is the pale, pale blonde with anemia of some non-fatal but incurable type. She is very languid and very shadowy and she speaks softly out of nowhere and you can’t lay a finger on her becuase in the first place you don’t want to and in the second place she is reading The Waste Land or Dante in the original, or Kafka or Kierkegaard or studying Provencal. She adores music and when the New York Philharmonic is playing Hindemith she can tell you which one of the six bass viols came in a quarter of a beat too late. I hear Toscanini can also. That makes two of them.

And lastly there is the gorgeous show piece who will outlast three kingpin racketeers and then marry a couple of millionaires at a million a head and end up with a pale rose villa at Cap Antibes, an Alfa-Romeo town car complete ith pilot and co-pilot, and a stable of shopworn aristocrats, all of whom she will treat with the affectionate absent-mindedness of an elderly duke saying goodnight to his butler.

The dream across the way was none of these, not even that kind of world. She was unclassifiable, as remote and clear as mountain water, as elusive as its color.”

Thank you for that wisdom, Raymond Chandler.

Advertisements
No comments yet

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: