The Dain Curse (Dashiell Hammett)

Posted: June 25, 2016 in fiction
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It’s a Dashiell Hammett mystery. What else is there really to say? Go watch The Thin Man and The Maltese Falcon. That’ll tell you what you need to know.

Well, actually, it’s three or four Dashiell Hammett mysteries. Gabrielle Dain Leggett is one of those pretty girls that other people keep dying around. The first sense of closure comes when her parents reveal their truly fucked up situation, with murder and suicide and family curses and all that. Then she goes to live in a cult, there are a few more murders, and then another sense of closure, but this one less certain. Then she goes off on a honeymoon for even more death. After a while you get inured to the idea that everyone in this book is going to die except for the Bogartesque narrator. After a while, the killer has to be the last man standing.

One of the things that I really appreciate about this book is the attitude that everyone is crazy. Curses are nonsense because they don’t actually make families unique; we all have bad things happen to us. We’re all mad here.

It sounds normal as hell to me. Nobody thinks clearly, no matter what they pretend. Thinking’s a dizzy business, a matter of catching as many of those foggy glimpses as you can and fitting them together the best you can. That’s why people hang on so tight to their beliefs and opinions; because, compared to the haphazard way in which they’re arrived at, even the goofiest opinion seems wonderfully clear, sane, and self-evident. And if you let it get away from you, then you’ve got to dive back into that foggy muddle to wangle yourself out another to take its place.

Life is crazy. Everything is connected, just like in real life. You can try to keep one part of your life separate from the rest, but it’s not possible. Your life is your life, and it all bleeds together and rolls up in a big old ball of weird. It’s like facebook, which I think of as a box of unlabeled photographs all mixed up and stirred together. It can be a little difficult keeping track of how people are related, who knows whom, both in Hammett and in real life. The different settings give the illusion of separation, but there is none. The speech-language pathologist in Salt Lake City is friends with the social worker in Chapel Hill, and it seems like everyone ends up in New York and Paris at some point. Hammett’s California criminals all seem to know each other too, whether they’re in San Francisco or not. It’s really just one case with a lot of false solutions, and our ersatz Bogart ends up using all the detectives in the agency with barely a client to justify the expense, but he solves the case. Too bad there aren’t enough living good people to make a happy ending.

And this is where I diverge from the hard-boiled detective genre. I see good people everywhere I go. If I were dropped on an island of cannibals and tossed into a stewpot, I would look at the people’s interactions and find enough love between them to feel that the world I was leaving is a good place. The detective would save his own skin more effectively than I would, but it wouldn’t make him happy. He wouldn’t be at peace with the world. The dissatisfaction is so prevalent and yet so unspoken that I wonder if Dashiell Hammett was depressed or excessively pessimistic. I don’t see how he could have been happy. Maybe I need to focus on finding something happy for my next read.

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