About Writers, reading, writing technique

Orson Welles With His Mouth Full of Crackers

The other day, someone on Facebook posted this challenge: “Quick, without thinking about it too hard, what’s the first, most memorable piece of character description that comes to your mind?”

I didn’t think about it too hard. What popped into my mind was: “He had a voice like Orson Welles with a mouthful of crackers.”

I knew it was from Raymond Chandler. It pretty much had to be. After a little digging through the dusty paperbacks, I found it: The Little Sister, Chapter 15.

If you’ve never read The Little Sister, I envy you a little. (Also, why the hell not?) It was Chandler’s fifth novel, and he was at the peak of his form. It may not have been his most elegantly written or most cleverly plotted, but that thing is bursting with gonzo energy.

It is, in modern parlance, cray.

It was Chandler’s Hollywood novel—swimming pools, movie stars, a guy running around sticking icepicks into people. Typical stuff. But this is Chandler. What matters is the writing, specifically the dialogue. Most specifically, the dialogue between Phillip Marlowe and Orfamay Quest, the prim, mousy girl from Manhattan, Kansas, who has come to Los Angeles to find her brother, Orrin. Everything about the case seems wrong to Marlowe, but he doesn’t have anything else to do. After much back and forth, he manages to pry a 20-dollar retainer from her tight little fist and sets off to find her brother.

I don’t want to give you any more of the story than that. Instead, I want to look at one chapter, number 15 to be exact. I could just say “go here and read it” but that wouldn’t make much of a post. For no other goddamned good reason other than my own self-indulgence, I present the entire chapter (Canadian Public Domain version) only slightly annotated. I hope you enjoy it:

Chapter Fifteen
She came in briskly enough this time. Her motions were small and quick and determined. There was one of those thin little, bright little smiles on her face. She put her bag down firmly, settled herself in the customer’s chair and went on smiling.

(I love the energy of this description. We’ve met Orfamay already, way back in Chapter One, but we don’t know what to make of her yet. The tumble of adjectives—small, quick, determined—and especially the wonderful cluster “thin little, bright little”—puts us on our guard. They are sharp and bristly. Orfamay is not to be trifled with, no matter how innocuous and innocent she may pretend to be.)

“It’s nice of you to wait for me,” she said. “I bet you haven’t had your dinner yet, either.”

“Wrong,” I said. “I have had my dinner. I am now drinking whiskey. You don’t approve of whiskey-drinking do you?” (Marlowe is ready to spar.)

“I certainly do not.” (So is she.)

“That’s just dandy,” I said. “I hoped you hadn’t changed your mind.” I put the bottle up on the desk and poured myself another slug. I drank a little of it and gave her a leer above the glass. (There is a game going on. It is not the game Orfamay thinks it is. Ultimately, it isn’t quite what Marlowe thinks it is either.)

“If you keep on with that you won’t be in any condition to listen to what I have to say,” she snapped.

“About this murder,” I said. “Anybody I know? I can see you’re not murdered—yet.”

“Please don’t be unnecessarily horrid. It’s not my fault. You doubted me over the telephone so I had to convince you. Orrin did call me up. But he wouldn’t tell me where he was or what he was doing. I don’t know why.”

“He wanted you to find out for yourself,” I said. “He’s building your character.”

“That’s not funny. It’s not even smart.”

“But you’ve got to admit it’s nasty,” I said. “Who was murdered? Or is that a secret too?”

She fiddled a little with her bag, not enough to overcome her embarrassment, because she wasn’t embarrassed. But enough to needle me into taking another drink. (The nimbleness of Chandler’s prose is awe-inspiring. He establishes character with such quick strokes.)

“That horrid man in the rooming house was murdered. Mr.—Mr.—I forget his name.”

“Let’s both forget it,” I said. “Let’s do something together for once.” I dropped the whiskey bottle into the desk drawer and stood up. “Look, Orfamay, I’m not asking you how you know all this. Or rather how Orrin knows it all. Or if he does know it. You’ve found him. That’s what you wanted me to do. Or he’s found you, which comes to the same thing.”

“It’s not the same thing,” she cried. “I haven’t really found him. He wouldn’t tell me where he was living.” (This is important to the bigger plot. Orfamay has presented herself as the caring sister, tracking down the wild brother who really needs to just come back to Kansas and be nurtured in the bosom of his loving family. Nothing could be further from the truth. Her insistence that “he wouldn’t tell me anything,” hints deftly at her real reason for being there.)

“Well if it is anything like the last place, I don’t blame him.”

She set her lips in a firm line of distaste. “He wouldn’t tell me anything really.”

“Just about murders,” I said. “Trifles like that.”

She laughed bubblingly. “I just said that to scare you. I don’t really mean anybody was murdered, Mr. Marlowe. You sounded so cold and distant. I thought you wouldn’t help me any more. And—well, I just made it up.” (A nice feint from Orfamay, but Marlowe isn’t buying.)

I took a couple of deep breaths and looked down at my hands. I straightened out the fingers slowly. Then I stood up. I didn’t say anything. (The drama of the sentences is understated and yet perfectly clear. No explication. No internal monologue.)

“Are you mad at me?” she asked timidly, making a little circle on the desk with the point of a finger. (Still dancing.)

“I ought to slap your face off,” I said. “And quit acting innocent. Or it mightn’t be your face I’d slap.”

Her breath caught with a jerk. “Why, how dare you!” (Her favorite counter-punch, but even she knows it’s a not a haymaker. She’s just playing for time.)

“You used that line,” I said. “You used it too often. Shut up and get the hell out of here. Do you think I enjoy being dared to death? Oh—there’s this.” I yanked a drawer open, got out her twenty dollars and threw them down in front of her. “Take this money away. Endow a hospital or a research laboratory with it. It makes me nervous having it around.” (Love that bit.  Even in 1940, twenty bucks wasn’t a real retainer, certainly not for the amount of time he’s already put into the case. But the dirty secrets of the Quest family have everything to do with money, and Marlowe’s hip to that already.)

Her hand reached automatically for the money. Her eyes behind the cheaters were round and wondering. “Goodness,” she said, assembling her handbag with a nice dignity.  (Assembling. Nice.)  “I’m sure I didn’t know you scared that easy. I thought you were tough.”

“That’s just an act,” I growled, moving around the desk. She leaned back in her chair away from me. “I’m only tough with little girls like you that don’t let their fingernails grow too long. I’m all mush inside.” I took hold of her arm and yanked her to her feet. Her head went back. Her lips parted. I was hell with the women that day. (Classic Chandler.)

“But you will find Orrin for me, won’t you?” she whispered. “It was all a lie. Everything I’ve told you was a lie. He didn’t call me up. I—I don’t know anything.” (Even when she’s leveling with him, she’s still playing him.)

“Perfume,” I said sniffing. “Why, you little darling. You put perfume behind your ears—and all for me!”

She nodded her little chin half an inch. Her eyes were melting. “Take my glasses off,” she whispered, “Philip. I don’t mind if you take a little whiskey once in a while. Really I don’t.”

Our faces were about six inches apart. I was afraid to take her glasses off. I might have socked her on the nose.  (Fantastic. Marlowe was such a perfect confusion of tough, cynical veneer and soft, almost prudish, interior. Humanity tends to disappoint him, but he’s too much of a romantic to ever truly give up on it.)

“Yes,” I said in a voice that sounded like Orson Welles with his mouth full of crackers. “I’ll find him for you, honey, if he’s still alive. And for free. Not a dime of expense involved. I only ask one thing.”

“What, Philip?” she asked softly and opened her lips a little wider.

“Who was the black sheep in your family?” (Finally. Marlowe is not the know-it-all, smart guy, love-em-and leave-em detective. He’s actually is a nice guy. We’ve know him for four novels now. If he’s sparring with Orfamay, it’s because he knows that she’s more dangerous than she appears. Not that there isn’t some genuine feeling when she says “Take my glasses off… I don’t mind if you take a little whiskey once in a while.” In some ways, she really is the innocent, at least about matters of the heart. She really does want Marlowe to kiss her. But she’s also running a different game, and Marlowe knows it. He’s just not sure what it is.)
She jerked away from me like a startled fawn might, if I had a startled fawn and it jerked away from me. (Also a classic Chandlerism.) She stared at me stony-faced.

“You said Orrin wasn’t the black sheep in your family. Remember? With a very peculiar emphasis. And when you mentioned your sister Leila, you sort of passed on quickly as if the subject was distasteful.”

“I—I don’t remember saying anything like that,” she said very slowly.

“So I was wondering,” I said. “What name does your sister Leila use in pictures?”

“Pictures?” she sounded vague. “Oh you mean motion pictures? Why I never said she was in pictures. I never said anything about her like that.”

I gave her my big homely lopsided grin. She suddenly flew into a rage.

“Mind your own business about my sister Leila,” she spit at me. “You leave my sister Leila out of your dirty remarks.”

“What dirty remarks?” I asked. “Or should I try to guess?”

“All you think about is liquor and women,” she screamed. “I hate you!” She rushed to the door and yanked it open and went out. She practically ran down the hall.

I went back around my desk and slumped into the chair. A very strange little girl. Very strange indeed. (That’s an understatement. In spite of everything, Orfamay intrigues him. He’s even a little touched by her. He’s in shopworn Galahad mode again, only this time around, the damsel isn’t really in distress.)

After a while the phone started ringing again, as it would. On the fourth ring I leaned my head on my hand and groped for it, fumbled it to my face.  (Love that.)

“Utter McKinley Funeral Parlors,” I said.

A female voice said: “Wha-a-t?” and went off into a shriek of laughter. That one was a riot at the police smoker in 1921. What a wit. Like a hummingbird’s beak. I put the lights out and went home.

(I always thought this was just a nonsense joke but Utter McKinley Mortuaries still exist, a fair number of them, around the Southern California area.)

And THAT is the entire chapter. I urge you to go read the whole book. You won’t be sorry you did.

Meanwhile, what’s the first, most memorable piece of character description that comes to your mind?


16 thoughts on “Orson Welles With His Mouth Full of Crackers

  1. mimispeike says:

    This, absolutely. Again, from Sly, but every bit of it paraphrased from biographical accounts based on comments of her contemporaries. Regarding Elizabeth I:

    As a young woman, Elizabeth had been striking: slender, pale skinned, with masses of auburn locks, but the years had done their dirty work. Her hair now grew in patches. She wore wigs, caked her pocked face with cosmetics, and seldom laughed. An open mouth revealed broken, blackened teeth. Seemingly oblivious to her decline, she play-acted nubile desirability. She demanded constant reassurance that she had not decayed, that a physical splendor still dazzled the eye and touched the heart.

    If one would gain her patronage, he must court her like a girl of eighteen and honor her not only as the Queen of England, but as the Queen of Love. Her affectations: the ancient, crepe-skinned bared breast, the ridiculous simpering, must be applauded. The sight of a gap-toothed crone, complexion thick smeared with the lethel white lead-based make-up of the period, must not engender other than an admiring fascination with the strange effect. Court etiquette proscribed a pose of faithfulness to the Virgin Queen. He who acknowledged other charms offended.

    Liked by 4 people

  2. GD Deckard says:

    LOL, I never expected to read an annotated chapter of Chandler. Or to enjoy it so much. Thanks, Atthys!

    Joseph Heller had a wonderful knack for vivid descriptions of appearance and character that left you wanting to know more about the person. Hungry Joe is a favorite of mine.

    Hungry Joe was a jumpy, emaciated wretch with a fleshless face of dingy skin and bone and twitching veins squirming subcutaneously in the blackened hollows behind his eyes like severed sections of snake. It was a desolate, cratered face, sooty with care like an abandoned mining town. Hungry Joe ate voraciously, gnawed incessantly at the tips of his fingers, stammered, choked, itched, sweated, salivated, and sprang from spot to spot frantically with an intricate black camera with which he was always trying to take pictures of naked girls. They never came out. He was always forgetting to put film in the camera or turn on lights or remove the cover from the lens opening. It wasn’t easy persuading naked girls to pose, but Hungry Joe had the knack.

    – Catch 22

    Liked by 3 people

  3. Opening paragraph of The Maltese Falcon (Dashiell Hammett):

    Samuel Spade’s jaw was long and bony, his chin a jutting v under the more flexible v of his mouth. His nostrils curved back to make another, smaller, v. His yellow-grey eyes were horizontal. The v motif was picked up again by thickish brows rising outward from twin creases above a hooked nose, and his pale brown hair grew down— from high flat temples—in a point on his forehead. He looked rather pleasantly like a blond satan.

    Liked by 4 people

    • atthysgage says:

      Classic stuff. I was riffing on this passage, though only in my own mind, in Whisper Blue when I was describing Miles Faber:

      He put on a smile—the same smile that made my mother call him a “handsome, blond devil”—and said, “It’s time to take this to the next level.”

      Despite years of trying, though, I still picture Humphrey Bogart when I think of Spade.

      Liked by 2 people

      • Indeed! Nowadays less is more, as far as character description goes. One of the best pieces of advice I ever received in this regard (forgot from whom) was: “describe your character in terms of the impact their physical appearance has on others”.

        FYI: In COLD TICKLE (a recent story of mine) I described the angry, misanthropic protagonist as having a face like “a berserker’s fart”. Says nothing–and everything–at the same time. (Is this good writing or terrible writing? I’m torn myself; I’ll accept either judgement. This is the kind of stuff that is readily dropped or revised as per the editorial taste of a publisher.)

        Liked by 1 person

        • atthysgage says:

          Well, it sure as hell worked in Cold Tickle. Purely figurative, of course (what’s a berzerker? How does a fart look?) but that’s it’s strength. It gives you a perfect indication of just what kind of narrative world we’re in—a bumpy, vertiginous roller coaster ride through the bizarre, the startling, and the cathartic.

          Liked by 3 people

  4. Carmen’s as thin as tapeworm and has waxy yellow skin that’s nearly transparent so that all her blue veins show like a human biology diagram. Her feet are the worst thing about her – skinny and flat with splayed toes and far too big for the rest of her body, the veins on them like tangled railway junctions. If this is what her feet are like at sixteen, what will they be like when she’s an old woman? But she’s an old woman now really.
    From Kate Atkinson’s Human Croquet, where Isobel, the first person narrator, is describing her friends. As with all great descriptions, it tells us as much about the POV character as it does about Carmen.

    Liked by 4 people

  5. mimispeike says:

    All of this is great fun, but some of it, for me, comes uncomfortably close to a better class of fluff.

    On the other hand, stylish fluff may have been the goal.

    Liked by 1 person

    • atthysgage says:

      Well, Orson Welles with a mouthful of crackers is certainly fluff (though Chandler is not). If I actually put thought into it, I could come up with many far more incisive and remarkable bits of description (as all of you who commented did.) So, yeah. Just for fun. But sometimes the winding pathway of fun can lead to the palace of wisdom and the temple of profundity. Or the vestibule of obscurity or the villa of ennui or the slough of despond. I’ll shut up now.

      Liked by 3 people

    • atthysgage says:

      Nice. I have to admit, I’m not having a lot of fun with writing these days. (In fact, the most fun I had with writing recently was getting ‘Pluck’ down on paper.) I keep moaning to myself about the hopelessness of finding recognition or an appreciative audience, but maybe what I really need is an attitude adjustment.

      Liked by 3 people

      • Yes, it would be nice to at least get a glimpse of Wallace’s second stage – losing the fun due to writing shitty stuff because one wants to please all the people who are reading what came before. For the moment I’m still stuck in the first.

        Liked by 3 people

  6. Nah, you just need to find the fun (or satisfaction: a better word) again.

    Have you tried writing a one- or two-page short-short for the fantasy, sci-fi or horror markets since PLUCK?

    PS. My irritation in this regard: “We’re sorry; we are currently closed to submissions.”

    “We’re sorry; we are closed permanently because of your skin-flint, starving-writer ass refusing to shell out a few lousy pieces of silver to keep our fine periodical on newstands.”

    “Agented submissions only, please. No agent? You suck! We thought we made this clear in previous rejections . . . ?”

    “ATTENTION! This is a geographically-focused anthology. We are only accepting manuscripts from one-eyed, Bulgarian mist-eater alchemists at this time. If you are NOT a one-eyed, Bulgarian mist-eater alchemist . . .”

    Liked by 4 people

  7. mimispeike says:

    In spite of the pain (lots of it) and the discouragement (ditto), I still think we lead the most exciting lives one can lead. (Ah, when things are going well.) Would I give up writing for peace of mind? I don’t think I’m capable of it.

    Liked by 4 people

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s