Reading Raymond Chandler is like bird-watching or hunting Easter eggs. He doesn’t indulge the reader’s taste for blood and violence the way other pulp writers do. His startling and odd descriptions of characters smack you in the face instead. “He looked about as inconspicuous as a tarantula on a slice of angel food” is how he introduces a hoodlum wearing a loud sport coat. It’s both funny and menacing. I don’t read and re-read the Psalms or Finnegans Wake, but I re-read Chandler endlessly for the pure pleasure of finding a surprise on every page.