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Lawrence Block, A Ticket to the Boneyard

An diesen Band erinnerte ich mich noch ziemlich gut, vielleicht weil der Mörder es hier auf Scudder selbst abgesehen hat. Und Block es versteht, das Gefühl von Ohnmacht und Ausgeliefert sein so erschreckend gut zu beschreiben. Und vielleicht auch weil Elaine mit diesem Band endgültig zu einem Hauptcharakter der Serie wird.

Life, I'd heard someone say, is a comedy for those who think and a tragedy for those who feel. It seemed to me that it was both at once, even for those of us who don't do much of either.

(Lawrence Block, A Ticket to the Boneyard, 1990)

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Lawrence Block, Out on the Cutting Edge

Ich fing erst mit dem Taschenbuch an, das aber dann leider ziemlich lädiert wurde, als ich in einen Regenschauer ohne Schirm geriet, und las es dann auf dem Paperwhite zuende während das Taschenbuch trocknete. Auch bei diesem Band hatte ich komplett vergessen wer die Mörder in den beiden ineinander verzweigten Handlungssträngen waren, und dass Mick Ballou hier sein Debut hat.

It was Friday night, which meant a step meeting, and this week we were on the sixth step, in the course of which one becomes ready on some inner level to hae one's defects of character removed. As far as I can tell, there's nothing in particular that you do to bring this about. It's just supposed to happen to you. It hasn't happened to me.

(Lawrence Block, Out on the Cutting Edge, 1989)

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Lawrence Block, A Drop of the Hard Stuff

Als ich schon mit "Out on the Cutting Edge" weitermachen wollte, fiel mir ein, dass dieser nachträglich geschriebene Band chronologisch noch zwischen "Eight Million Ways to Die" und dem ursprünglich nächsten Band angesiedelt ist. Hier kann Scudder gerade sein erstes Jubiläum als trockener Alkoholiker feiern - auch wenn ihm nach Feiern kaum zumute ist.

I dialed it now, and the machine picked up. I listened to a dead man's voice. I hung up, wondering how long it would be before someone unplugged the machine, how long before the telephone company cut off the phone service.
You don't die all at once. Not anymore. These days you die a little at a time.
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It was getting dark out when I left the library. I'd lost all track of time, and when I checked my watch I saw that it was past five. It wasn't fully dark, but the sun was down, and a gray day was drawing to a close. Every day the sun disappeared a little earlier than the day before. There was nothing out of the ordinary about that, it happened every year, but there were times when I felt there was a sadness attached to it, that the poor old year was dying a day at a time.
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(Lawrence Block, A Drop of the Hard Stuff, 2011)

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Lawrence Block, The Night and the Music, Matthew Scudder Short Stories

In 'The Night and the Music' gibt es am Schluß noch ein paar neuere Stories, die in den Collected Mystery Stories nicht enthalten sind, und so las ich sie parallel, wie es sich gerade ergab. Stories wie "Out the Window" oder "A Candle for the Bag Lady" könnte ich immer wieder lesen ohne sie überzubekommen.
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Maybe she caught her own killer. Maybe he caught himself, as everyone does. Maybe no man's an island and maybe everybody is.
All I know is I lit a candle for the woman, and I suspect I'm not the only one who did.

(Lawrence Block, A Candle for the Bag Lady, 1977)

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Lawrence Block, When the Sacred Ginmill closes

Eigentlich sollte man meinen, dass der Band viel zu lange braucht um richtig spannend zu werden, aber vermutlich ist es auch eher die Atmosphäre, dieses perfekte Stimmungsbild von New York 1975, das dieses Buch so faszinierend macht. Auch wenn er ziemlich aus der Reihe tanzt.

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Lawrence Block, Eight Million Ways to Die

Obwohl Scudder am Ende die Kurve kriegt und es gerade so schafft, der einen letzten Versuchung zu widerstehen, erscheint mir dieser Band als einer der bittersten und hoffnungslosesten Teile der Serie. Und nach wie vor einer der besten, wenn nicht der Beste.
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After the meeting I walked for awhile in Central Park. The sun was out for a change and it was the first good day all week. I took a good long walk and watched the kids and the runners and the cyclists and the roller skaters and tried to reconcile all that wholesome innocent energy with the dark face of the city that showed itself every morning in the newspaper.
The two worlds overlap. Some of these riders would be robbed of their bicycles. Some of these strolling lovers would return home to burglarized apartments. Some of these laughing kids would pull holdups, and shoot or stab, and some would be held up or shot or stabbed, and a person could give himself a headache trying to make sense out of it.
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He was visibly drunk now, but only if you knew where to look. The eyes had a glaze on them, and there was a matching glaze on his whole manner. He was holding up his end of a typical alcoholic conversation, wherein two drunks take polite turns talking aloud to their own selves.
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'Those are cowry shells. Primitive societies all over the world use the cowry shell as a medium of exchange, it's the Swiss franc of the tribal world. You see how it's shaped?'
I went and had a look.
'Like the female genitalia,' she said. 'So men automatically use it to buy and sell.'
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(Lawrence Block, Eight Million Ways to Die, 1981)