"The universe isn't trying to tell you anything. Stop it."
– the rational part of my brain

Apophenia is a fancy word for our human tendency to see patterns in things. Deep down, I know the universe isn't trying to tell me things, but I still get excited when a pattern emerges from unrelated sources. My latest one involves author Raymond Chandler. I heard music producer Rick Rubin say if something was recommended to him by three different people, he considered it a sign, and consumes it.
This same thing happens to me. It's why I have a retractable hose in the backyard, why I spent too much on my last car, and even why I started this weekly missive. If a few people tell me about a thing, my curiosity gets the best of me.
In the case of Chandler, his work was referenced a few times, by random people, and though I know of Sam Spade, I've never read his work. Must consume. A quick search on Amazon brought up a used copy of his early stories and novels. 13 short stories and 3 novels. It seemed like a lot, but whatever. I put it in my cart, moved it to "save for later", and forgot about it.
Then, a few weeks ago, I had a fit of curiosity about the story behind "The Big Lebowski." I read one of the Cohen brothers say, "We wanted to do a Chandler kind of story – how it moves episodically, and deals with the characters trying to unravel a mystery. As well as having a hopelessly complex plot that’s ultimately unimportant."
That was the sign. It was time to act. Ignoring the stack of unread books on my desk, I clicked 'buy' and kind of forgot about it.
Last week the book showed up. A lovely hardbound edition that came with a box, like a collectors' copy. It even has a little ribbon attached to keep track of where I am in this great big book with teeny-tiny print. So many stories.
My report so far: this is the definition of pulp fiction. The first stories take place in Los Angeles. Nightclubs, crooked cops, guns, getting hit by blackjacks, a little casual racism, detailed descriptions of femme fatales, misogyny, and lots of people calling each other, "baby." The "hopelessly complex plot that's ultimately unimportant" holds up so far. Only 1100 pages more.
I'll let you know how it goes. Baby.
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