Manafonistas

He’s good acquaintance. He sent me this review the other morning from a cafe in Edinburgh. He has a regular look at our month’s choices of thriller novels, and is a huge fan of Garth Risk Hallberg’s debut novel that will be released in Germany in March. Apart from that, he’s diving into the classics, and gets new thrills even when reading „The Thin Man“ for the fifth time since bis childhood days. Before I read my first Hammett novel, I saw (must have been by the time of the Americans flying to the moon) „Der dünne Mann“ on TV. Can still remember the actors and faces. Memory land. (m.e.)

I picked this up around 5:30 this evening in a local bookstore, sat down with a tall glass of iced tea, and when I next looked up it was 10:55. I’ve got one final chapter to go, which I’m saving until tomorrow morning. I’ve read Hammett’s output, but it’s been years (more than 20 now that I think about it) since I last read him. Over those years I’ve also read other biographies as well as critical and pop culture books about Hammett and the various movie adaptations of his works. I was aware of Ward’s book for the past few weeks, but I had no burning desire to read it. Indeed, admire him as I do, I thought I was done with Hammett. The bookshelves groan under the weight of too many other unread books to discover as the decades hurtle on. And yet, that cover, the famous photo … it kept tugging at me. So after work today, I reached for it, turned to the first page, and Ward reeled me in. I just spent a highly satisfying five hours with him. This is an excellent read for the newcomer to Hammett’s life and artistry and for the long-time fan well-versed in Hammett lore. Ward is the kind of writer whose elegant sentences and measured voice provide deep reading pleasure.

There Is A Happy Land is the title of the fifth track on Schneekugeln. And what fucking depression.

Keen readers will know the title from two places: first from the awful, depressing 19th century hymn that’s about as spiritual as drinking paint. Second, from the infinitely depressing (but great) 1957 Keith Waterhouse novel by the same name. The hymn is what it is. The novel is pure unadulterated cosmos. A genius book, whose acuity of perception is so sharp that to re-read it would be vandalism.

It’s impossible to imagine this song’s iration without the influence of the novel. Part of Bowie’s genius was the ability to throw references forward without the need to poststructualise. In this case, throwing forward from the primordial paint of the life-reducing hymn and the mega fucked-up Sistine of Waterhouse’s novel. To the last song on the record.

The first four songs are an acceleration. This is a brake.