I’ve been meaning to read Dashiell Hammett for ages, thinking it would scratch the same combination of literary and thematic itches that the works of Raymond Chandler do so well. Unfortunately this didn’t do the trick, perhaps in part because it turned out to be more murder mystery than hard-boiled crime novel. Dated though they might be, I found the racism and sexism throughout completely distracting and the writing paled in comparison to Chandler’s. Though I was amazed and amused by the constant drinking that Nick and Nora Charles manage to accomplish throughout the story. At one point Nick declines his wife’s offer of breakfast, complaining that it’s too early, and requests a drink instead. It’s no wonder one of my favorite bar tenders in Portland named his dog Asta after the Charles’ pup. I’ve not given up on Hammett just yet. I’m going to read The Maltese Falcon and see if Sam Spade, Hammett’s solitary private eye, and his moody milieu are anything like Chandler’s Philip Marlowe and his hard-boiled environs.