I wish my memory wasn't so bad, so that I could remember more examples.
Anyway I was wondering this morning if Mr King was either deliberately or subsconciously tipping a stylistic nod to some of the original hardboiled detective authors.
Some of his phraseology reminded me of one of my personal favourite writers Raymond Chandler, and in particular his use of similes. These normally crack me up with Chandler, you know the sort of thing
Anyway when I was listening this morning and heard the sentence used to describe Holly as
I thought "hmmm that reminds me of Chandler." Also some of the descriptions of Hodges in the third person really reminded me of Chandler, although frustratingly I can't quite put my finger on why.
Anyway it just led me to wonder if this might have been an eitehr concious or sub-concious homage.
Can't resist my favourite Chandler quote at this point.
Anyway I was wondering this morning if Mr King was either deliberately or subsconciously tipping a stylistic nod to some of the original hardboiled detective authors.
Some of his phraseology reminded me of one of my personal favourite writers Raymond Chandler, and in particular his use of similes. These normally crack me up with Chandler, you know the sort of thing
I belonged in Idle Valley like a pearl onion on a banana split
Anyway when I was listening this morning and heard the sentence used to describe Holly as
playing the keyboard like a piano
I thought "hmmm that reminds me of Chandler." Also some of the descriptions of Hodges in the third person really reminded me of Chandler, although frustratingly I can't quite put my finger on why.
Anyway it just led me to wonder if this might have been an eitehr concious or sub-concious homage.
Can't resist my favourite Chandler quote at this point.
He was a big man but not more than six feet five inches tall and not wider than a beer truck. He was about ten feet away from me. His arms hung loose at his aides and a forgotten cigar smoked behind his enormous fingers............He was worth looking at. He wore a shaggy borsalino hat, a rough gray sports coat with white golf balls on it for buttons, a brown shirt, a yellow tie, pleated gray flannel slacks and alligator shoes with white explosions on the toes. From his outer breast pocket cascaded a show handkerchief of the same brilliant yellow as his tie. There were a couple of colored feathers tucked into the band of his hat, but he didn’t really need them. Even on Central Avenue, not the quietest dressed street in the world, he looked about as inconspicuous as a tarantula on a slice of angel food.