The Philosophy Of Feelings

[NOIRTRASH]

Yesterday I read a long chapter exhibiting the emotional distress of some cops for a child murdered 30 years earlier. One cop went to the restroom and vomited, the other cop made a vow to God to punish the killer.

I thought the cops were HISYTIONIC and not near convincing.

Then I read a Jack London story featuring a team of sled dogs doomed to death from starvation and being eaten by wolves. One of the humans perished with them. The effect was powerful.

So I wondered why the one account failed and the other hit the target.

I recalled what one of my ancestors wrote about the death of her youngest and favorite child. Its powerful writing because its about the dying, not her grief afterwards. Two of the boy's brothers are MDs who cant save him, nor do prayers, nor the mothers tears. Dying is a collision with futility. Its like watching a ship sink or a trailer burn with people trapped inside. Later doesn't matter as much.

 

[NOIRTRASH]

I found a good example of feelings in Raymond Cgandler's THE LONG GOODBYE.

In it Philip Marlowe got caught playing with a client's wife. The client sets Marlowe straight about the wife.

I looked back at Eileen. For her I wasn’t there any more. I got up and went into the house. Wade stood there with the drink and the drink looked pretty heavy. And his eyes looked wrong.

“How you making out with my wife, Marlowe?” It was said with a twist of the mouth.

“No passes, if you mean it that way.”

“That’s exactly the way I mean it. You got to kiss her the other night. Probably fancy yourself as a fast worker, but you’re wasting your time, bud. Even if you had the right kind of polish.”

I tried to move around him but he blocked me with a solid shoulder. “Don’t hurry away, old man. We like you around. We get so few private dicks in our house.” “I’m the one too many,” I said.

He hoisted the glass and drank from it. When he lowered it he leered at me. “You ought to give yourself a little more time to build resistance,” I told him. “Empty words, huh?”

“Okay, coach. Some little character builder, aren’t you? You ought to have more sense than to try educating a drunk. Drunks don’t educate, my friend. They disintegrate. And part of the process is a lot of fun.” He drank from the glass again, leaving it nearly empty.

“And part of it is damned awful. But if I may quote the scintillating words of the good Dr. Loring, a bastardly bastard with a little black bag, stay away from my wife, Marlowe. Sure you go for her. They all do. You’d like to sleep with her. They all would. You’d like to share her dreams and sniff the rose of her memories.
Maybe I would too. But there is nothing to share, chum—nothing, nothing, nothing. You’re all alone in the dark.”

He finished his drink and turned the glass upside down. “Empty like that, Marlowe. Nothing there at all. I’m the guy that knows.”

He put the glass on the edge of the bar and walked stiffy to the foot of the stairs. He made about a dozen steps up, holding on to the rail, and stopped and leaned against it. He looked down at me with a sour grin.







Chandler, Raymond. The Long Goodbye: A Novel (Philip Marlowe series Book 6) (Kindle Locations 2969-2972). Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group. Kindle Edition.

 

[NOIRTRASH]

The above is a rare expression of feelings by Chandler. He didn't do feelings well. Marlowe is a wise guy and the supporting characters are porcupines. But the example is good feelings depiction.

 

[NOIRTRASH]

This from Truman Capote's first published story; he was like 18.

THE WALLS ARE COLD (1943)

The girl is 16, the sailor is 18 or so. She picks up some sailors at a bar na dbrings them home . She invites on to her bedroom, makes him a drink, and invites him to kiss her.

Capote, Truman. The Complete Stories of Truman Capote (Vintage International) (p. 3). Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group. Kindle Edition.

She didn’t answer but put a cigarette in her mouth instead. He held the match for her and she let her hand brush against his. His hand was trembling and the light was not very steady. She inhaled and said, “You want to kiss me, don’t you?” She watched him intently and saw the slow, red spread over his face. “Why don’t you?” “You’re not that kind of girl. I’d be scared to kiss a girl like you, ’sides, you’re only making fun out of me.” She laughed and blew the smoke in a cloud toward the ceiling. “Stop it, you sound like something out of a gaslight melodrama. What is ‘that kind of girl,’ anyway? Just an idea. Whether you kiss me or not isn’t of the slightest importance. I could explain, but why bother? You’d probably end up thinking I’m a nymphomaniac."

“I don’t even know what that is.” “Hell, that’s what I mean. You’re a man, a real man and I’m so sick of these weak, effeminate boys like Les. I just wanted to know what it would be like, that’s all.” He bent over her. “You’re a funny kid,” he said, and she was in his arms. He kissed her and his hand slid down along her shoulder and pressed against her breast. She twisted and gave him a violent shove and he went sprawling across the cold, green rug.

She got up and stood over him and they stared at each other. “You dirt,” she said. Then she slapped his bewildered face. She opened the door, paused, and straightened her dress and went back to the party. He sat on the floor for a moment, then he got up and found his way to the foyer and then remembered that he had left his cap in the white room, but he didn’t care, all he wanted was to get out of here. The hostess looked inside the drawing-room and motioned for Mildred to come out. “For God’s sake, Mildred, get these people out of here;

 

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