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A treasure worth killing for Sam Spade, a slightly shop-worn private eye with his own solitary code of ethics, a perfumed grifter named Joel Cairo, a fat man named Gutman, and Brigid O'Shaughnessy, a beautiful and treacherous woman whose loyalties shift at the drop of a dime. These are the ingredients of Dashiell Hammett's coolly glittering gem of detective fiction, a novel that has haunted three generations of readers.… (more)
lucien: A great modern take on the noir genre in comic form. Berry is successful at both weaving a solid noir tale and having some good fun with genre conventions.
I'm afraid, for me, this book really showed its age. Part of the problem is that there has been so much pastiche and parody of Hammett's style since, which isn't his fault, but I must admit to mentally reading this in a 'Dragnet' voice much of the time. But the biggest problem is "hero" Sam Spade. There's only so much misogyny, racism and homophobia that a modern reader can take. It struck me that a modern writer of hard-boiled crime would be far more likely to cast Spade as the psychopath rather than the detective. ( )
[I]t would not surprise us one whit if Mr. Hammett should turn out to be the Great American Mystery Writer. . . . In short, "The Maltese Falcon" is the best one, outside the . . . polite classes, in Lord knows when.
added by NinieB | editNew York Herald Tribune, Will Cuppy(Feb 23, 1930)
If the locution "hard-boiled" had not already been coined it would be necessary to coin it now to describe the characters . . . .
added by NinieB | editNew York Times(Feb 23, 1930)
Samuel Spade's jaw was long and bony, his chin a jutting v under the more flexible v of his mouth.
Quotations
The boy spoke two words, the first a short guttural verb, the second 'you'. "People lose teeth talking like that." Spade's voice was still amiable though his face had become wooden. "If you want to hang around you'll be polite." The boy repeated his two words.
Spade by means of his grip on the Levantine's lapels turned him slowly and pushed him back until he was standing close in front of the chair he had lately occupied. A puzzled look replaced the look of pain in the lead-colored face. Then Spade smiled. The smile was gentle, even dreamy. His right shoulder raised a few inches. His bent right arm was driven up by the shoulder's lift. Fist, wrist, forearm, crooked elbow, and upper arm seemed all one rigid piece, with only the limber shoulder giving them motion. The fist struck Cairo's face...
"I don't know where that damned bird is. You don't. She does. How in hell are we going to get it if I don't play along with her?" Cairo hesitated, said dubiously: "You have always, I must say, a smooth explanation ready." Spade scowled. "What do you want me to do? Learn to stutter?"
‘Who killed Thursby?’
Spade said: ‘I don’t know.’
Bryan rubbed his black eyeglass-ribbon between thumb and fingers and said knowingly: ‘Perhaps you don’t, but you certainly could make an excellent guess.’
‘Maybe, but I wouldn’t.’
The District Attorney raised his eyebrows.
‘I wouldn’t,’ Spade repeated. He was serene. ‘My guess might be excellent or it might be crummy, but Mrs Spade didn’t raise any children dippy enough to make guesses in front of a District Attorney, an Assistant District Attorney, and a stenographer.’
‘Why shouldn’t you, if you’ve nothing to conceal?’
‘Everybody,’ Spade responded mildly, ‘has something to conceal.’
‘And you have – ?’
‘My guesses, for one thing.'
Last words
"Yes," he said, and shivered. "Well, send her in."
A treasure worth killing for Sam Spade, a slightly shop-worn private eye with his own solitary code of ethics, a perfumed grifter named Joel Cairo, a fat man named Gutman, and Brigid O'Shaughnessy, a beautiful and treacherous woman whose loyalties shift at the drop of a dime. These are the ingredients of Dashiell Hammett's coolly glittering gem of detective fiction, a novel that has haunted three generations of readers.
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Haiku summary
Yes, I'm guilty, but I'll get free with female wiles. Whoops, need a Plan B.