crime-thriller

Only a few can survive and face reality without a vice.

He began as a minor imitator of Fitzgerald, wrote a novel in the late twenties which won a prize, became dissatisfied with his work, stopped writing for a period of years. When he came back it was to BLACK MASK and the other detective magazines with a curious and terrible fiction which had never been seen before in the genre markets; Hart Crane and certainly Hemingway were writing of people on the edge of their emotions and their possibility but the genre mystery markets were filled with characters whose pain was circumstantial, whose resolution was through action; Woolrich's gallery was of those so damaged that their lives could only be seen as vast anticlimax to central and terrible events which had occurred long before the incidents of the story. Hammett and his great disciple, Chandler, had verged toward this more than a little, there is no minimizing the depth of their contribution to the mystery and to literature but Hammett and Chandler were still working within the devices of their category: detectives confronted problems and solved (or more commonly failed to solve) them, evil was generalized but had at least specific manifestations: Woolrich went far out on the edge. His characters killed, were killed, witnessed murder, attempted to solve it but the events were peripheral to the central circumstances. What I am trying to say, perhaps, is that Hammett and Chandler wrote of death but the novels and short stories of Woolrich *were* death. In all of its delicacy and grace, its fragile beauty as well as its finality.Most of his plots made no objective sense. Woolrich was writing at the cutting edge of his time. Twenty years later his vision would attract a Truffaut whose own influences had been the philosophy of Sartre, the French nouvelle vague, the central conception that nothing really mattered. At all. But the suffering. Ah, that mattered; that mattered quite a bit.

She had been lying there, facedown in the water long before the tide had turned at 3.04 that morning. Her eyes were staring into the river, her blonde hair first fanning out, then drawing back under her head with the wash of the water, like a pulsating jellyfish. The belt of her raincoat was caught on the branches of an overhanging tree and she__ been hooked, destined to forever flap against the corner of the broken pier with outstretched arms. She wasn__ going anywhere now; she was simply bobbing up and down with the rhythm of the water - and she hadn__ blinked in a long while.

Every man will tell you little boys should not play with dolls but ask any mother and they will tell you, every little boy has gone to sleep cuddled into one at one time in there life.

Soon he would be able to touch her, to feel the warmth of her blood. When the time came, nothing would stop him.

Makana stared up at the stars and marvelled at how clear they were out here, so far from human habitation. It was remarkable, just how many there were. They felt comforting, despite his situation. They took him back to his life with Muna, the happiest time he could remember, when the world had been simple. Sitting out in the yard in the evenings, watching the sky revolve slowly around them. It seemed like another world.

It's only after you've lost everything that we're free to do anything.--Chuck Palahniuk

On deathbed every single good, bad, ugly moment becomes special.

You have the Answer. Just get quiet enough to hear it. ~Pat Obuchowski

I am the prosecutor. I represent the state. I am here to present to you the evidence of a crime. Together you will weigh this evidence. You will deliberate upon it. You will decide if it proves the defendant's guilt.

She had a face that had had lived a thousand stories and none with a happy ending.

I have to hurt other people in order to get what I want, I don__ have a choice but to. In life, you gotta do the right things for the wrong reasons. Or the wrong things for the right reasons.

No sun cream or condoms, just in case you__e looking at the lady-boys. There__ plenty of AIDS lingering about and every STD you can imagine.

Margaret Attwood: __ hope that people will finally come to realize that there is only one race _ the human race _ and that we are all members of it.__men to that, I say. (Tom Bryson)

Crime isn't pretty, only fashionably dressed.

Life is like a dream, when you wake up,you only have memories.

You learn to run by running.

If you wait for God to descend to earth and save youfrom your fuck ups, you will be waiting until youdrop dead.