May 21, 2019
I recently scored another of the Stark House Noir Classics collections (which have been featured in various Cocktail Talks back in various days), this one a trio of books by the often dark, deep, bleak, noir and pulp (though either in some ways does him a little disservice) master David Goodis! Including Nightfall, which is a twisty-and-turn-y number, a crime novel, a who-can-you-trust book, and a “this will never end well” book that actually ends well. All following the mostly main character who’s an artist and an ex-college-football player, and who ended up in the wrong place at the wrong time. And really, the below isn’t the most Cocktail Talk-y of all Cocktail Talks, but I love the idea of a time when people just sorta naturally had peach cordials after a big meal. Don’t miss past Goodis Cocktail Talk posts, either
The food came and they ate silently. Every now and then he lifted his eyes and watched her for a moment or so. He liked the way she ate. A quiet sort of gusto. She took her time and yet she didn’t waste any time. Her table etiquette was an easy, relaxed thing that made it a pleasure to sit her with her. After the food, Vanning ordered peach cordials. They sipped the cordials and smiled at each other.
–David Goodis, Nightfall
November 20, 2018
Wow, I haven’t had a lot of David Goodis on here (I think just one Goodis post
) – which is a shame, cause I love his work. Maybe it’s just too downbeat? Maybe when they drink it feels almost, oh, the opposite of the jolly drinking I tend to applaud? Maybe it’s just bad timing? – nearly all of his characters have a lot of bad timing. But he (though not as revered here in the U.S. as he should be, or maybe not as well-known
is a better way to put it, as his devotees are devoted, and I say U.S. cause he’s bigger in France, where most of his books have been made into movies, and where the only scant biography of him has been published) is a subtle master of pacing and language, and an obvious master of writing about the down and out and the nowhere to go and the last chance has already faded into the past, the back alleys and longshores and shabby bars that become nearly family for those who inhabit their shady, scruffy, barstools to nowhere. Shoot The Piano Player
may be his best-known book, or at least one with Dark Passage
the other, as it was made into a movie by François Truffaut, and it’s a worthy read unless you’re looking for some sort-of peppy ending. Lots of it centers around a bar, Harriet’s Hut. Not the nicest place, but a popular joint, as the below description tells us.
At the bar the Friday night crowd was jammed three-and-four-deep. Most of the drinkers wore work pants and heavy-soled work shoes. Some were very old, sitting in groups at the tables, their hair white and their faces wrinkled. But their hands didn’t tremble as they lifted beer mugs and shot glasses. They could still lift a drink as well as any Hut regular, and they held their alcohol with a certain straight-seated dignity that gave them the appearance of venerable elders at a town meeting.
—Shoot the Piano Player, David Goodis
June 4, 2013
David Goodis was once called “the poet of the losers” and while I’m not 100% sure that’s 100% apt, it fits pretty well. He wrote books that take “noir” and dip it in a syrup of painful luck combined with serious sadness. Perhaps the most famous (though not the only one made into a movie by the French, who love themselves some Goodis) is Shoot the Piano Player. A fine read. But the one I’ve just finished is Black Friday (which, by the way, has nothing outside of making you question the world in common with the day after Thanksgiving), in which a guy on the run for killing his brother steals a coat, runs into some bad men, then some bad women, then cuts a guy up a feeds him into the furnace . . . and it goes downhill from there. A fine read, which at one point ends up with a lot of gin being consumed:
Charley took the bottle and began pouring the gin into a water glass. He got the glass three-quarters full. He lifted the glass to his mouth and drank the gin as though it was water. The radio was playing more bebop. It was Dizzy Gillespie again and Dizzy’s trumpet went up and up and up and way up.
–David Goodis, Black Friday