Everyone loves Raymond Chandler (don't they?).But Chandler didn't love everyone. Take James M. Cain:
Everything he touches smells like a billygoat. He is every kind of writer I detest, a faux naïf, a Proust in greasy overalls, a dirty little boy with a piece of chalk and a board fence and nobody looking. Such people are the offal of literature, not because they write about dirty things, but because they do it in a dirty way.Harsh.
What would Aaron Klopstein make of that put-down?
With all due (considerable) respect for Chandler, I stand by my high opinion of Cain.
(Via Petelit via The Publishing Spot.)
--Marshal Zeringue
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