Looking back now, The Big Sleep looks like a crucial point of transition from being an voracious but indiscriminate reader to, well, a more discriminate reader of serious Literatuh. Before that time most of my reading was centered on Agatha Christie mysteries and equally amusing diversions, so after the Bogie and Bacall classic brought this novel to my attention about halfway through high school, I figured "awesome, more mysteries!" and checked out Chandler's novel from my local library.

I don't remember many specifics of that first reading, other than the unbridled enthusiasm it inspired (I went on to read everything by Chandler available to me over the next year or two). But boy did those similes and poetic descriptions stick with me—for whatever reason the characterization of a street as a "curving ribbon of wet concrete" imprinted itself on my memory ever after. If I wanted to attempt analyzing my life as a chain of neat cause-and-effects, I could very well select this as the lightbulb moment where I finally began to perceive the power of writing and literary artistry, and truly realize how the mundane can be transformed into the sublime through just a few well-selected words.

It wasn't a conscious decision, of course, but after that encounter with The Big Sleep less and less Christie novels were checked out from the library; it was also during this time I began taking my English classes more seriously. By the time I entered college several years later I dimly perceived that I might actually want to devote my attention and major in these book thingies (it took a while, but I did ultimately did head in that direction).

Just after Christmas I revisited the film, a favorite that I hadn't seen in years. Afterwards I picked up the book, but not without a bit of trepidation. I never reread The Big Sleep, but over the years my returns to Chandler had yielded disappointments (The Lady in the Lake underwent a particularly drastic fall from grace).

But much to my surprise, I found The Big Sleep even better than I remembered it. Oh, as a mystery narrative it's more or less a bust—the legend surrounding both the novel and film regarding the plot holes are surely justified. But that seems rather beside the point to me: the brilliance is in the vivid individual episodes rather than the sum of the narrative parts. Frankly, I could care less who killed who—I read this to savor Marlowe's constant wisecracks and wry musings, and to meet the eccentric character that seems to emerge from behind every door. And I'll just straight out say it: within The Big Sleep are some of the most evocative, unexpectedly beautiful similes and descriptions I've ever come across in all 20th century American literature.

"She gave me one of those smiles the lips have forgotten before they reach the eyes."

"It was a crisp morning, with just enough snap in the air to make life seem simple and sweet, if you didn't have too much on your mind. I had."

"…her mouth looked like the prelude to a scream."

I rest my case.