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The Long Goodbye (A Philip Marlowe Novel) ペーパーバック – 1988/8/12
英語版
Raymond Chandler
(著)
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ONE OF TIME MAGAZINE'S 100 BEST MYSTERY AND THRILLER BOOKS OF ALL TIME • The renowned novel from crime fiction master Raymond Chandler, with the "quintessential urban private eye" (Los Angeles Times), Philip Marlowe • Featuring the iconic character that inspired the film Marlowe, starring Liam Neeson.
In noir master Raymond Chandler's The Long Goodbye, Philip Marlowe befriends a down on his luck war veteran with the scars to prove it. Then he finds out that Terry Lennox has a very wealthy nymphomaniac wife, whom he divorced and remarried and who ends up dead. And now Lennox is on the lam and the cops and a crazy gangster are after Marlowe.
In noir master Raymond Chandler's The Long Goodbye, Philip Marlowe befriends a down on his luck war veteran with the scars to prove it. Then he finds out that Terry Lennox has a very wealthy nymphomaniac wife, whom he divorced and remarried and who ends up dead. And now Lennox is on the lam and the cops and a crazy gangster are after Marlowe.
- 本の長さ384ページ
- 言語英語
- 出版社Vintage Crime/Black Lizard
- 発売日1988/8/12
- 寸法13.06 x 1.98 x 20.27 cm
- ISBN-100394757688
- ISBN-13978-0394757681
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"Raymond Chandler is a master." --The New York Times
“[Chandler] wrote as if pain hurt and life mattered.” --The New Yorker
“Chandler seems to have created the culminating American hero: wised up, hopeful, thoughtful, adventurous, sentimental, cynical and rebellious.” --Robert B. Parker, The New York Times Book Review
“Philip Marlowe remains the quintessential urban private eye.” --Los Angeles Times
“Nobody can write like Chandler on his home turf, not even Faulkner. . . . An original. . . . A great artist.” —The Boston Book Review
“Raymond Chandler was one of the finest prose writers of the twentieth century. . . . Age does not wither Chandler’s prose. . . . He wrote like an angel.” --Literary Review
“[T]he prose rises to heights of unselfconscious eloquence, and we realize with a jolt of excitement that we are in the presence of not a mere action tale teller, but a stylist, a writer with a vision.” --Joyce Carol Oates, The New York Review of Books
“Chandler wrote like a slumming angel and invested the sun-blinded streets of Los Angeles with a romantic presence.” —Ross Macdonald
“Raymond Chandler is a star of the first magnitude.” --Erle Stanley Gardner
“Raymond Chandler invented a new way of talking about America, and America has never looked the same to us since.” --Paul Auster
“[Chandler]’s the perfect novelist for our times. He takes us into a different world, a world that’s like ours, but isn’t. ” --Carolyn See
“[Chandler] wrote as if pain hurt and life mattered.” --The New Yorker
“Chandler seems to have created the culminating American hero: wised up, hopeful, thoughtful, adventurous, sentimental, cynical and rebellious.” --Robert B. Parker, The New York Times Book Review
“Philip Marlowe remains the quintessential urban private eye.” --Los Angeles Times
“Nobody can write like Chandler on his home turf, not even Faulkner. . . . An original. . . . A great artist.” —The Boston Book Review
“Raymond Chandler was one of the finest prose writers of the twentieth century. . . . Age does not wither Chandler’s prose. . . . He wrote like an angel.” --Literary Review
“[T]he prose rises to heights of unselfconscious eloquence, and we realize with a jolt of excitement that we are in the presence of not a mere action tale teller, but a stylist, a writer with a vision.” --Joyce Carol Oates, The New York Review of Books
“Chandler wrote like a slumming angel and invested the sun-blinded streets of Los Angeles with a romantic presence.” —Ross Macdonald
“Raymond Chandler is a star of the first magnitude.” --Erle Stanley Gardner
“Raymond Chandler invented a new way of talking about America, and America has never looked the same to us since.” --Paul Auster
“[Chandler]’s the perfect novelist for our times. He takes us into a different world, a world that’s like ours, but isn’t. ” --Carolyn See
抜粋
The first time I laid eyes on Terry Lennox he was drunk in a Rolls-Royce Silver Wraith outside the terrace of The Dancers. The parking lot attendant had brought the car out and he was still holding the door open because Terry Lennox's left foot was still dangling outside, as if he had forgotten he had one. He had a young-looking face but his hair was bone white. You could tell by his eyes that he was plastered to the hairline, but otherwise he looked like any other nice young guy in a dinner jacket who had been spending too much money in a joint that exists for that purpose and for no other.
There was a girl beside him. Her hair was a lovely shade of dark red and she had a distant smile on her lips and over her shoulders she had a blue mink that almost made the Rolls-Royce look like just another automobile. It didn't quite. Nothing can.
The attendant was the usual half-tough character in a white coat with the name of the restaurant stitched across the front of it in red. He was getting fed up.
"Look, mister," he said with an edge to his voice, "would you mind a whole lot pulling your leg into the car so I can kind of shut the door? Or should I open it all the way so you can fall out?"
The girl gave him a look which ought to have stuck at least four inches out of his back. It didn't bother him enough to give him the shakes. At The Dancers they get the sort of people that disillusion you about what a lot of golfing money can do for the personality.
A low-swung foreign speedster with no top drifted into the parking lot and a man got out of it and used the dash lighter on a long cigarette. He was wearing a pullover check shirt, yellow slacks, and riding boots. He strolled off trailing clouds of incense, not even bothering to look towards the Rolls-Royce. He probably thought it was corny. At the foot of the steps up to the terrace he paused to stick a monocle in his eye.
The girl said with a nice burst of charm: "I have a wonderful idea, darling. Why don't we just take a cab to your place and get your convertible out? It's such a wonderful night for a run up the coast to Montecito. I know some people there who are throwing a dance around the pool."
The white-haired lad said politely: "Awfully sorry, but I don't have it any more. I was compelled to sell it." From his voice and articulation you wouldn't have known he had had anything stronger than orange juice to drink.
"Sold it, darling? How do you mean?" She slid away from him along the seat but her voice slid away a lot farther than that.
"I mean I had to," he said. "For eating money.
"Oh, I see." A slice of spumoni wouldn't have melted on her now.
The attendant had the white-haired boy right where he could reach him--in a low-income bracket. "Look, buster," he said, "I've got to put a car away. See you some more some other time--maybe."
He let the door swing open. The drunk promptly slid off the seat and landed on the blacktop on the seat of his pants. So I went over and dropped my nickel. I guess it's always a mistake to interfere with a drunk. Even if he knows and likes you he is always liable to haul off and poke you in the teeth. I got him under the arms and got him up on his feet.
'Thank you so very much," he said politely.
The girl slid under the wheel. "He gets so goddam English when he's loaded," she said in a stainless-steel voice. "Thanks for catching him."
"I'll get him in the back of the car," I said.
"I'm terribly sorry. I'm late for an engagement." She let the clutch in and the Rolls started to glide. "He's just a lost dog," she added with a cool smile. "Perhaps you can find a home for him. He's housebroken--more or less."
And the Rolls ticked down the entrance driveway onto Sunset Boulevard, made a right turn, and was gone. I was looking after her when the attendant came back. And I was still holding the man up and he was now sound asleep.
"Well, that's one way of doing it," I told the white coat.
"Sure," he said cynically. "Why waste it on a lush? Them curves and all."
"You know him?"
"I heard the dame call him Terry. Otherwise I don't know him from a cow's caboose. But I only been here two weeks."
"Get my car, will you?" I gave him the ticket.
By the time he brought my Olds over I felt as if I was holding up a sack of lead. The white coat helped me get him into the front seat. The customer opened an eye and thanked us and went to sleep again.
"He's the politest drunk I ever met," I said to the white coat.
"They come all sizes and shapes and all kinds of manners," he said. "And they're all bums. Looks like this one had a plastic job one time."
"Yeah." I gave him a dollar and he thanked me. He was right about the plastic job. The right side of my new friend's face was frozen and whitish and seamed with thin fine scars. The skin had a glossy look along the scars. A plastic job and a pretty drastic one.
"Whatcha aim to do with him?"
"Take him home and sober him up enough to tell me where he lives."
The white coat grinned at me. "Okay, sucker. If it was me, I'd just drop him in the gutter and keep going. Them booze hounds just make a man a lot of trouble for no fun. I got a philosophy about them things. The way the competition is nowadays a guy has to save his strength to protect hisself in the clinches."
"I can see you've made a big success out of it," I said.
He looked puzzled and then he started to get mad, but by that time I was in the car and moving.
He was partly right of course. Terry Lennox made me plenty of trouble. But after all that's my line of work.
* * *
I was living that year in a house on Yucca Avenue in the Laurel Canyon district. It was a small hillside house on a dead-end street with a long flight of redwood steps to the front door and a grove of eucalyptus trees across the way. It was furnished, and it belonged to a woman who had gone to Idaho to live with her widowed daughter for a while. The rent was low, partly because the owner wanted to be able to come back on short notice, and partly because of the steps. She was getting too old to face them every time she came home.
I got the drunk up them somehow. He was eager to help but his legs were rubber and he kept falling asleep in the middle of an apologetic sentence. I got the door unlocked and dragged him inside and spread him on the long couch, threw a rug over him and let him go back to sleep. He snored like a grampus for an hour. Then he came awake all of a sudden and wanted to go to the bathroom. When he came back he looked at me peeringly, squinting his eyes, and wanted to know where the hell he was. I told him. He said his name was Terry Lennox and that he lived in an apartment in Westwood and no one was waiting up for him. His voice was clear and unslurred.
He said he could handle a cup of black coffee. When I brought it he sipped it carefully holding the saucer close under the cup.
"How come I'm here?" he asked, looking around.
"You squiffed out at The Dancers in a Rolls. Your girl friend ditched you."
"Quite," he said. "No doubt she was entirely justified."
"You English?"
"I've lived there. I wasn't born there. If I might call a taxi, I'll take myself off."
"You've got one waiting."
He made the steps on his own going down. He didn't say much on the way to Westwood, except that it was very kind of me and he was sorry to be such a nuisance. He had probably said it so often and to so many people that it was automatic.
His apartment was small and stuffy and impersonal. He might have moved in that afternoon. On a coffee table in front of a hard green davenport there was a half empty Scotch bottle and melted ice in a bowl and three empty fizzwater bottles and two glasses and a glass ash tray loaded with stubs with and without lipstick. There wasn't a photograph or a personal article of any kind in the place. It might have been a hotel room rented for a meeting or a farewell, for a few drinks and a talk, for a roll in the hay. It didn't look like a place where anyone lived.
He offered me a drink. I said no thanks. I didn't sit down. When I left he thanked me some more, but not as if I had climbed a mountain for him, nor as if it was nothing at all. He was a little shaky and a little shy but polite as hell. He stood in the open door until the automatic elevator came up and I got into it. Whatever he didn't have he had manners.
He hadn't mentioned the girl again. Also, he hadn't mentioned that he had no job and no prospects and that almost his last dollar had gone into paying the check at The Dancers for a bit of high class fluff that couldn't stick around long enough to make sure he didn't get tossed in the sneezer by some prowl car boys, or rolled by a tough hackie and dumped out in a vacant lot.
On the way down in the elevator I had an impulse to go back up and take the Scotch bottle away from him. But it wasn't any of my business and it never does any good anyway. They always find a way to get it if they have to have it.
I drove home chewing my lip. I'm supposed to be tough but there was something about the guy that got me. I didn't know what it was unless it was the white hair and the scarred face and the clear voice and the politeness. Maybe that was enough. There was no reason why I should ever see him again. He was just a lost dog, like the girl said.
There was a girl beside him. Her hair was a lovely shade of dark red and she had a distant smile on her lips and over her shoulders she had a blue mink that almost made the Rolls-Royce look like just another automobile. It didn't quite. Nothing can.
The attendant was the usual half-tough character in a white coat with the name of the restaurant stitched across the front of it in red. He was getting fed up.
"Look, mister," he said with an edge to his voice, "would you mind a whole lot pulling your leg into the car so I can kind of shut the door? Or should I open it all the way so you can fall out?"
The girl gave him a look which ought to have stuck at least four inches out of his back. It didn't bother him enough to give him the shakes. At The Dancers they get the sort of people that disillusion you about what a lot of golfing money can do for the personality.
A low-swung foreign speedster with no top drifted into the parking lot and a man got out of it and used the dash lighter on a long cigarette. He was wearing a pullover check shirt, yellow slacks, and riding boots. He strolled off trailing clouds of incense, not even bothering to look towards the Rolls-Royce. He probably thought it was corny. At the foot of the steps up to the terrace he paused to stick a monocle in his eye.
The girl said with a nice burst of charm: "I have a wonderful idea, darling. Why don't we just take a cab to your place and get your convertible out? It's such a wonderful night for a run up the coast to Montecito. I know some people there who are throwing a dance around the pool."
The white-haired lad said politely: "Awfully sorry, but I don't have it any more. I was compelled to sell it." From his voice and articulation you wouldn't have known he had had anything stronger than orange juice to drink.
"Sold it, darling? How do you mean?" She slid away from him along the seat but her voice slid away a lot farther than that.
"I mean I had to," he said. "For eating money.
"Oh, I see." A slice of spumoni wouldn't have melted on her now.
The attendant had the white-haired boy right where he could reach him--in a low-income bracket. "Look, buster," he said, "I've got to put a car away. See you some more some other time--maybe."
He let the door swing open. The drunk promptly slid off the seat and landed on the blacktop on the seat of his pants. So I went over and dropped my nickel. I guess it's always a mistake to interfere with a drunk. Even if he knows and likes you he is always liable to haul off and poke you in the teeth. I got him under the arms and got him up on his feet.
'Thank you so very much," he said politely.
The girl slid under the wheel. "He gets so goddam English when he's loaded," she said in a stainless-steel voice. "Thanks for catching him."
"I'll get him in the back of the car," I said.
"I'm terribly sorry. I'm late for an engagement." She let the clutch in and the Rolls started to glide. "He's just a lost dog," she added with a cool smile. "Perhaps you can find a home for him. He's housebroken--more or less."
And the Rolls ticked down the entrance driveway onto Sunset Boulevard, made a right turn, and was gone. I was looking after her when the attendant came back. And I was still holding the man up and he was now sound asleep.
"Well, that's one way of doing it," I told the white coat.
"Sure," he said cynically. "Why waste it on a lush? Them curves and all."
"You know him?"
"I heard the dame call him Terry. Otherwise I don't know him from a cow's caboose. But I only been here two weeks."
"Get my car, will you?" I gave him the ticket.
By the time he brought my Olds over I felt as if I was holding up a sack of lead. The white coat helped me get him into the front seat. The customer opened an eye and thanked us and went to sleep again.
"He's the politest drunk I ever met," I said to the white coat.
"They come all sizes and shapes and all kinds of manners," he said. "And they're all bums. Looks like this one had a plastic job one time."
"Yeah." I gave him a dollar and he thanked me. He was right about the plastic job. The right side of my new friend's face was frozen and whitish and seamed with thin fine scars. The skin had a glossy look along the scars. A plastic job and a pretty drastic one.
"Whatcha aim to do with him?"
"Take him home and sober him up enough to tell me where he lives."
The white coat grinned at me. "Okay, sucker. If it was me, I'd just drop him in the gutter and keep going. Them booze hounds just make a man a lot of trouble for no fun. I got a philosophy about them things. The way the competition is nowadays a guy has to save his strength to protect hisself in the clinches."
"I can see you've made a big success out of it," I said.
He looked puzzled and then he started to get mad, but by that time I was in the car and moving.
He was partly right of course. Terry Lennox made me plenty of trouble. But after all that's my line of work.
* * *
I was living that year in a house on Yucca Avenue in the Laurel Canyon district. It was a small hillside house on a dead-end street with a long flight of redwood steps to the front door and a grove of eucalyptus trees across the way. It was furnished, and it belonged to a woman who had gone to Idaho to live with her widowed daughter for a while. The rent was low, partly because the owner wanted to be able to come back on short notice, and partly because of the steps. She was getting too old to face them every time she came home.
I got the drunk up them somehow. He was eager to help but his legs were rubber and he kept falling asleep in the middle of an apologetic sentence. I got the door unlocked and dragged him inside and spread him on the long couch, threw a rug over him and let him go back to sleep. He snored like a grampus for an hour. Then he came awake all of a sudden and wanted to go to the bathroom. When he came back he looked at me peeringly, squinting his eyes, and wanted to know where the hell he was. I told him. He said his name was Terry Lennox and that he lived in an apartment in Westwood and no one was waiting up for him. His voice was clear and unslurred.
He said he could handle a cup of black coffee. When I brought it he sipped it carefully holding the saucer close under the cup.
"How come I'm here?" he asked, looking around.
"You squiffed out at The Dancers in a Rolls. Your girl friend ditched you."
"Quite," he said. "No doubt she was entirely justified."
"You English?"
"I've lived there. I wasn't born there. If I might call a taxi, I'll take myself off."
"You've got one waiting."
He made the steps on his own going down. He didn't say much on the way to Westwood, except that it was very kind of me and he was sorry to be such a nuisance. He had probably said it so often and to so many people that it was automatic.
His apartment was small and stuffy and impersonal. He might have moved in that afternoon. On a coffee table in front of a hard green davenport there was a half empty Scotch bottle and melted ice in a bowl and three empty fizzwater bottles and two glasses and a glass ash tray loaded with stubs with and without lipstick. There wasn't a photograph or a personal article of any kind in the place. It might have been a hotel room rented for a meeting or a farewell, for a few drinks and a talk, for a roll in the hay. It didn't look like a place where anyone lived.
He offered me a drink. I said no thanks. I didn't sit down. When I left he thanked me some more, but not as if I had climbed a mountain for him, nor as if it was nothing at all. He was a little shaky and a little shy but polite as hell. He stood in the open door until the automatic elevator came up and I got into it. Whatever he didn't have he had manners.
He hadn't mentioned the girl again. Also, he hadn't mentioned that he had no job and no prospects and that almost his last dollar had gone into paying the check at The Dancers for a bit of high class fluff that couldn't stick around long enough to make sure he didn't get tossed in the sneezer by some prowl car boys, or rolled by a tough hackie and dumped out in a vacant lot.
On the way down in the elevator I had an impulse to go back up and take the Scotch bottle away from him. But it wasn't any of my business and it never does any good anyway. They always find a way to get it if they have to have it.
I drove home chewing my lip. I'm supposed to be tough but there was something about the guy that got me. I didn't know what it was unless it was the white hair and the scarred face and the clear voice and the politeness. Maybe that was enough. There was no reason why I should ever see him again. He was just a lost dog, like the girl said.
著者について
RAYMOND THORNTON CHANDLER (1888 - 1959) was the master practitioner of American hard-boiled crime fiction. Although he was born in Chicago, Chandler spent most of his boyhood and youth in England where he attended Dulwich College and later worked as a freelance journalist for The Westminster Gazette and The Spectator. During World War I, Chandler served in France with the First Division of the Canadian Expeditionary Force, transferring later to the Royal Flying Corps (R. A. F.). In 1919 he returned to the United States, settling in California, where he eventually became director of a number of independent oil companies. The Depression put an end to his career, and in 1933, at the age of forty-five, he turned to writing fiction, publishing his first stories in Black Mask. Chandler’s detective stories often starred the brash but honorable Philip Marlowe (introduced in 1939 in his first novel, The Big Sleep) and were noted for their literate presentation and dead-on critical eye. Never a prolific writer, Chandler published only one collection of stories and seven novels in his lifetime. Some of Chandler’s novels, like The Big Sleep, were made into classic movies which helped define the film noir style. In the last year of his life he was elected president of the Mystery Writers of America. He died in La Jolla, California on March 26, 1959.
登録情報
- 出版社 : Vintage Crime/Black Lizard; Reissue版 (1988/8/12)
- 発売日 : 1988/8/12
- 言語 : 英語
- ペーパーバック : 384ページ
- ISBN-10 : 0394757688
- ISBN-13 : 978-0394757681
- 寸法 : 13.06 x 1.98 x 20.27 cm
- Amazon 売れ筋ランキング: - 39,257位洋書 (洋書の売れ筋ランキングを見る)
- - 98位Hard-Boiled Mystery
- - 939位American Literature
- カスタマーレビュー:
著者について
著者をフォローして、新作のアップデートや改善されたおすすめを入手してください。
1888年シカゴ生まれ。7歳のころ両親が離婚し、母についてイギリスへと渡る。名門ダリッチ・カレッジに通うも卒業することなく中退。
1912年アメリカへ戻り、いくつかの職業を経たのち、1933年にパルプ雑誌《ブラック・マスク》に寄稿した短篇「ゆすり屋は撃たない」で作家デビューを飾る。
1939年には処女長篇『大いなる眠り』を発表。同書の主人公、私立探偵フィリップ・マーロウは、永遠のアイコンとなった。1953年に発表した『ロング・グッドバイ』で、アメリカ探偵作家クラブ(MWA)賞の最優秀長篇賞を受賞した。1959年没。享年70。
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未だ全部読み切って無いが、やはりこの英語に浸るのは素晴らしい。解らない単語も直ぐチェック出来るし。でも確かに誰かが書いていたが、間違いが有ります。
2014年6月11日に日本でレビュー済み
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There are lots of goodbyes in this book. It's a very sad story about sad women and men, and an extremely independent man. It's worth reading.
2018年3月4日に日本でレビュー済み
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印刷物をスキャンしてOCRにかけたのではないかと思われるがところどころ誤字やおかしなパンクチュエーションがありひっかかる。値段は安いがそういう欠点があるので正確なものを望むなら他のバージョンがよいだろう。
英文的にはかなり独特な表現が多く、大判の辞書や英辞郎でも載ってない言葉が多数出てくるので読み進めるのに時間がかかる。英語初学者ではほとんど意味がわからないだろう。
英文的にはかなり独特な表現が多く、大判の辞書や英辞郎でも載ってない言葉が多数出てくるので読み進めるのに時間がかかる。英語初学者ではほとんど意味がわからないだろう。
2014年9月17日に日本でレビュー済み
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Chandler の名作ですが、digitalise の時か、ペーパーバックの時かはわかりませんが
ひどく間違いないが多くて、気になります
Close-->dose clear --> dear 等は2回目以降はまただ とすぐにわかりましたが
Clue がdueになっているときは、しばらく、え、なに と読み進めませんでした
その他、変なところにperiod(.)があったり、単語の最後が、大文字になったりとメチャクチャ
英語のできないひとが入力したから、程度の悪いスカナーを使ったのでしょうか
残念です
ひどく間違いないが多くて、気になります
Close-->dose clear --> dear 等は2回目以降はまただ とすぐにわかりましたが
Clue がdueになっているときは、しばらく、え、なに と読み進めませんでした
その他、変なところにperiod(.)があったり、単語の最後が、大文字になったりとメチャクチャ
英語のできないひとが入力したから、程度の悪いスカナーを使ったのでしょうか
残念です
2008年4月8日に日本でレビュー済み
Amazonで購入
チャンドラーは映画の脚本執筆もしていたということなので、
セリフが粋な感じで、読んでいるうちにその状況が
映画のように頭に浮かびました。
とにかくマーロウがかっこよく、描写もオシャレで
ノスタルジックで話に引き込まれて楽しめました。
シャーロック・ホームズのように架空の人物ですが、
実在するような妙な気持にさせられました。
セリフが粋な感じで、読んでいるうちにその状況が
映画のように頭に浮かびました。
とにかくマーロウがかっこよく、描写もオシャレで
ノスタルジックで話に引き込まれて楽しめました。
シャーロック・ホームズのように架空の人物ですが、
実在するような妙な気持にさせられました。
2006年1月9日に日本でレビュー済み
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50年前の小説で主人公の名前は英語の辞書にも出てくる有名な推理小説です。
ふとしたきっかけで知り合った私立探偵マルローとレノックスは、親密ではないが、なんとなく友情を深めていきます。マルローはレノックスが、いつか大きなトラブルに巻き込まれるのではないかと気にかかるのですが、レノックスは妻殺しの容疑をかけられ、マルローは逃亡を手助けします。
ストーリーは次々と意外な展開をしていき、最後の6ページで予想外の真実が明らかにされます。
英語は若干読みづらいように思いましたが、本格的な推理小説で、読んで損はしないと思います。
ふとしたきっかけで知り合った私立探偵マルローとレノックスは、親密ではないが、なんとなく友情を深めていきます。マルローはレノックスが、いつか大きなトラブルに巻き込まれるのではないかと気にかかるのですが、レノックスは妻殺しの容疑をかけられ、マルローは逃亡を手助けします。
ストーリーは次々と意外な展開をしていき、最後の6ページで予想外の真実が明らかにされます。
英語は若干読みづらいように思いましたが、本格的な推理小説で、読んで損はしないと思います。
他の国からのトップレビュー
gm
5つ星のうち5.0
Phillip Marlowe
2023年2月27日にカナダでレビュー済みAmazonで購入
I enjoyed this book a lot, but it couldn't be written today, as the racism in it is hard to read ,and the way he described blonde woman is truly awful. But I will read another one of his books.
Editorial Cuadernos del Laberinto
5つ星のうち5.0
Todo correcto
2023年6月18日にスペインでレビュー済みAmazonで購入
Tal como indicaban en la descripción.
Envío veloz.
Contenta con la compra.
Envío veloz.
Contenta con la compra.
Amazon Kunde
5つ星のうち5.0
Best Detective Story Ever
2021年9月3日にドイツでレビュー済みAmazonで購入
Highly complex, critical, puzzling!
Marquinius
5つ星のうち4.0
Amazing to read something my father read when he was young
2020年10月6日にオランダでレビュー済みAmazonで購入
A cool story, sometimes a little dated (but not much), with a few flicks in the direction of screenplay. But interesting and a good storyline. Strange that I never read him before: I must have seen it at my father’s, decades ago.
Certainly worth reading.
Certainly worth reading.
Matthew Carey
5つ星のうち5.0
That was then, this is now.
2021年5月20日にオーストラリアでレビュー済みAmazonで購入
After hearing Chandler referenced many times, The Long Good-bye is the first of his books I’ve read. It has a pace that makes it hard to put down, and the author can get maximum impact from a minimum number of words.
Some of the content and attitudes wouldn’t stand if they were written today, but accepting that it was written in and of its time, the plot twists and turns in a satisfying way.
Some of the content and attitudes wouldn’t stand if they were written today, but accepting that it was written in and of its time, the plot twists and turns in a satisfying way.