What do you think?
Rate this book
Heed the Thunder
In the rural town of Verdon, Nebraska, in the early days of the 20th century, you can't go ten feet without running into one of the Fargos. So, Grant Fargo argues to his grandfather Lincoln, it's perfectly all right that he's desperately in love with his first cousin, Bella—she's the only source of intelligent conversation for miles, and in a town like Verdon, it would be hard not to end up with a relative of one kind or another.
Before it all plays out, men will be murdered, jailed, tarred and feathered or worse, and while everyone in the Fargo clan would kill for the family deeds, God might just end up with them instead. In Heed the Thunder, one of Thompson's earlier works, Thompson's signature style collides with a sweeping picaresque of the American prairie, in a multigenerational saga that's one part Steinbeck, two parts Dostoyevsky, and all Jim Thompson.
Before it all plays out, men will be murdered, jailed, tarred and feathered or worse, and while everyone in the Fargo clan would kill for the family deeds, God might just end up with them instead. In Heed the Thunder, one of Thompson's earlier works, Thompson's signature style collides with a sweeping picaresque of the American prairie, in a multigenerational saga that's one part Steinbeck, two parts Dostoyevsky, and all Jim Thompson.
352 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1946
29 people are currently reading
420 people want to read
About the author
Jim Thompson
161 books1,647 followersLibrarian Note: There is more than one author in the GoodReads database with this name. See this thread for more information.
James Myers Thompson was a United States writer of novels, short stories and screenplays, largely in the hardboiled style of crime fiction.
Thompson wrote more than thirty novels, the majority of which were original paperback publications by pulp fiction houses, from the late-1940s through mid-1950s. Despite some positive critical notice, notably by Anthony Boucher in the New York Times, he was little-recognized in his lifetime. Only after death did Thompson's literary stature grow, when in the late 1980s, several novels were re-published in the Black Lizard series of re-discovered crime fiction.
Thompson's writing culminated in a few of his best-regarded works: The Killer Inside Me, Savage Night, A Hell of a Woman and Pop. 1280. In these works, Thompson turned the derided pulp genre into literature and art, featuring unreliable narrators, odd structure, and surrealism.
The writer R.V. Cassills has suggested that of all pulp fiction, Thompson's was the rawest and most harrowing; that neither Dashiell Hammett nor Raymond Chandler nor even Horace McCoy, author of the bleak They Shoot Horses, Don't They?, ever "wrote a book within miles of Thompson". Similarly, in the introduction to Now and on Earth, Stephen King says he most admires Thompson's work because "The guy was over the top. The guy was absolutely over the top. Big Jim didn't know the meaning of the word stop. There are three brave lets inherent in the forgoing: he let himself see everything, he let himself write it down, then he let himself publish it."
Thompson admired Fyodor Dostoevsky and was nicknamed "Dimestore Dostoevsky" by writer Geoffrey O'Brien. Film director Stephen Frears, who directed an adaptation of Thompson's The Grifters as 1990's The Grifters, also identified elements of Greek tragedy in his themes.
James Myers Thompson was a United States writer of novels, short stories and screenplays, largely in the hardboiled style of crime fiction.
Thompson wrote more than thirty novels, the majority of which were original paperback publications by pulp fiction houses, from the late-1940s through mid-1950s. Despite some positive critical notice, notably by Anthony Boucher in the New York Times, he was little-recognized in his lifetime. Only after death did Thompson's literary stature grow, when in the late 1980s, several novels were re-published in the Black Lizard series of re-discovered crime fiction.
Thompson's writing culminated in a few of his best-regarded works: The Killer Inside Me, Savage Night, A Hell of a Woman and Pop. 1280. In these works, Thompson turned the derided pulp genre into literature and art, featuring unreliable narrators, odd structure, and surrealism.
The writer R.V. Cassills has suggested that of all pulp fiction, Thompson's was the rawest and most harrowing; that neither Dashiell Hammett nor Raymond Chandler nor even Horace McCoy, author of the bleak They Shoot Horses, Don't They?, ever "wrote a book within miles of Thompson". Similarly, in the introduction to Now and on Earth, Stephen King says he most admires Thompson's work because "The guy was over the top. The guy was absolutely over the top. Big Jim didn't know the meaning of the word stop. There are three brave lets inherent in the forgoing: he let himself see everything, he let himself write it down, then he let himself publish it."
Thompson admired Fyodor Dostoevsky and was nicknamed "Dimestore Dostoevsky" by writer Geoffrey O'Brien. Film director Stephen Frears, who directed an adaptation of Thompson's The Grifters as 1990's The Grifters, also identified elements of Greek tragedy in his themes.
Ratings & Reviews
Friends & Following
Create a free account to discover what your friends think of this book!
Community Reviews
Displaying 1 - 29 of 29 reviews
April 1, 2017
Thoroughly entertaining and wildly subversive for its time, this is a truly Midwestern tale on the great plains of Nebraska, in a small town. I’m reading Thompson's novels from beginning to end, this being the second, and a rich blend of colorful yet deep characters. All have their foibles, which are perhaps exposed in an “over the top” style, but complex nonetheless and always entertaining. This evinced Tom Sawyer somewhat, in the young boy’s shenanigans in a small town America just before automobiles arrived. The story is about a clan, somewhat intermarried and frightfully tribal and maliciously loyal to each other, as a drama unfolds. Sherwood Anderson comes to mind, but Thompson holds this together better as a tale, a morality, where the good only occasionally triumphs. The Fargo clan is led by Lincoln, but his sons are Sherman and Grant, a sly play on the mixed loyalties not uncommon in my neck of the woods during the civil war. On his deathbed he finally reaches back to his traumas during Sherman’s march, as he hacks up blood and dies at home an old man, puffing on a stogie and self-medicating from a bottle. There is a remarkable amount to learn her, as the novel is the best vehicle to carry the context of history and place, such as the story of how the farming practices destroy the land (e.g. creating the sand dunes of Nebraska that I learned about). The rise of the town loser to politician and subsequent graft and corruption was neatly detailed. Old grudges and fresh conflicts are aplenty. Often hilarious, these sketches often had me literally laughing out loud. Yet the debauchery is nauseating and the violence is fresh and raw, and a clever use of horror in just the right places. Thompson has a peculiar vocabulary, using words new to me. I found that refreshing, as Faulkner when he renders the most mundane experiences in deep and beautiful prose.
I will definitely complete Thompson’s repertoire. I found him more authentic than Erskine Caldwell (God’s Little Acre) and certainly more accessible than Faulkner. All the prejudices of the day are on display, against people of color and particular strains of immigrants.
Some passages I liked:
p. 23 on the land vs people: “..but still they were blood, and blood counted. This was a feudal land. One held it and prospered according to the size of his clan. Within the clan itself there might be all sorts of internecine warfare. But to the outsider they presented a wall, almost impregnable. It as a condition bred of the vast loneliness of the prairies and nurtured by the same force, a sort of economy- or civilization, of scarcity.”
p. 82, the wife upon finding the husband’s secret salve: “She believed it was for some normal function of men, parallel to, but considerably more painful than, a woman’s menses. She guessed it probably had something to do with their coition-“.
p. 89, the acceptance of some types in the community: “The Nordic peoples, particularly the Germans, were among the best liked and most respected in the valley. Colonials by heritage, they knew how to adapt themselves to new places, how to fit in. But, most important of all, they had not come to the land empty-handed; they had not been driven from their native soil, but had come willingly…. Briefly, they were the antithesis of the hunkies and Rooshans. And they looked down on these latter from an even more lofty pinnacle than did the native Americans. In fact, there own attitude was in no small way responsible for the Americans’ opinion of the ‘foreigners’”. (note: Rooshans= Russians, hunkies= eastern Europeans, “native” Americans= anglo saxon colonists).
p. 140/141, the violence of whipping the face of a hunkie schoolboy: “Courtland had hurt the Czerny boy more terribly than he ever knew, and when the boy reached home he was beaten again by his father and locked in the stable for punishment. This was right, of course, for the young Czerny had endangered the living of his whole family by his misconduct…that night he began to howl with pain, and his mother slipped out to him and pushed a saucer of grease beneath the locked door. His fingers stiff with cold, he dropped it to the floor of the stable, and when he anointed his swollen and broken face in the darkness, there was manure on his fingers…By morning he was raving, by evening his head was puffed to twice its normal size, he was a festering, bleeding, sightless mess…By fall he seemed completely normal again- except for his looks. His face looked liked it had been branded with a running-iron; his mouth had been chewed and clawed until it was almost twice its original size, and there were only a few stumps of teeth in his rotted gums. He was completely blind…”
I will definitely complete Thompson’s repertoire. I found him more authentic than Erskine Caldwell (God’s Little Acre) and certainly more accessible than Faulkner. All the prejudices of the day are on display, against people of color and particular strains of immigrants.
Some passages I liked:
p. 23 on the land vs people: “..but still they were blood, and blood counted. This was a feudal land. One held it and prospered according to the size of his clan. Within the clan itself there might be all sorts of internecine warfare. But to the outsider they presented a wall, almost impregnable. It as a condition bred of the vast loneliness of the prairies and nurtured by the same force, a sort of economy- or civilization, of scarcity.”
p. 82, the wife upon finding the husband’s secret salve: “She believed it was for some normal function of men, parallel to, but considerably more painful than, a woman’s menses. She guessed it probably had something to do with their coition-“.
p. 89, the acceptance of some types in the community: “The Nordic peoples, particularly the Germans, were among the best liked and most respected in the valley. Colonials by heritage, they knew how to adapt themselves to new places, how to fit in. But, most important of all, they had not come to the land empty-handed; they had not been driven from their native soil, but had come willingly…. Briefly, they were the antithesis of the hunkies and Rooshans. And they looked down on these latter from an even more lofty pinnacle than did the native Americans. In fact, there own attitude was in no small way responsible for the Americans’ opinion of the ‘foreigners’”. (note: Rooshans= Russians, hunkies= eastern Europeans, “native” Americans= anglo saxon colonists).
p. 140/141, the violence of whipping the face of a hunkie schoolboy: “Courtland had hurt the Czerny boy more terribly than he ever knew, and when the boy reached home he was beaten again by his father and locked in the stable for punishment. This was right, of course, for the young Czerny had endangered the living of his whole family by his misconduct…that night he began to howl with pain, and his mother slipped out to him and pushed a saucer of grease beneath the locked door. His fingers stiff with cold, he dropped it to the floor of the stable, and when he anointed his swollen and broken face in the darkness, there was manure on his fingers…By morning he was raving, by evening his head was puffed to twice its normal size, he was a festering, bleeding, sightless mess…By fall he seemed completely normal again- except for his looks. His face looked liked it had been branded with a running-iron; his mouth had been chewed and clawed until it was almost twice its original size, and there were only a few stumps of teeth in his rotted gums. He was completely blind…”
August 9, 2014
Heed The Thunder was Jim Thompson's second novel, and although it doesn't fall under the heading of crime there's a definite element of noir permeating every page. The first half of the novel reads like Flannery O'Connor meets The Magnificent Ambersons,bu then by the second half we get to watch the entire family hit the wall with disaster over murder over scandal over deception. If you ever watched Little House On The Prairie on acid it doesn't even come close to what you're about to read.
BTW, as an Oklahoman, did Mister Thompson possibly hold any resentment towards the winning side of The Civil War? The three wicked Fargos in the book are named Lincoln, Grant and Sherman. Hmmm......
BTW, as an Oklahoman, did Mister Thompson possibly hold any resentment towards the winning side of The Civil War? The three wicked Fargos in the book are named Lincoln, Grant and Sherman. Hmmm......
January 7, 2017
1946 erscheint Jim Thompsons zweiter Roman HEED THE THUNDER. Der Mann, der für seine Verrückten, Psychopathen, Wahnsinnige, für seine eiskalten, empathiefreien Killer, die falschen Frauen, hässlichen Kinder und vollkommen dysfunktionale Familiensysteme berühmt werden sollte, der früh schon Rassismus, Korruption und ein Gesellschaftssystem, das nur ein ultrakapitalistisches „Ganz oder gar nicht“ kennt, anprangerte und sich nicht scheute, sich mit seinen kommunistischen Überzeugungen in einem Amerika, das geradezu unter Kommunisten-Paranoia litt, unbeliebt zu machen, dieser Mann legte mit diesem Werk, das 4 Jahre nach seinem Erstling, dem autobiographischen Roman NOW AND ON EARTH (1942) erschien, einen Gesellschaftsroman aus dem Mittleren Westen vor, in dem alle Themen, die den vollendeten Romancier von THE KILLER INSIDE ME (1952), THE GETAWAY (1959) oder POP. 1280 (1964) beschäftigen und ausmachen sollten, bereits angelegt, manche sogar schon ausgearbeitet sind.
Beginnend ca. 1905, werden die Ereignisse und Begebenheiten rund um die Familie Fargo aus Verdon, Nebraska, über einen Zeitraum von etwa 10 Jahren erzählt. Die Fargos sind ein Clan, der – vom Patriarchen Lincoln „Link“ Fargo angeführt – eine große Farm betreibt, hauptsächlich Weizen anbaut und sich ansonsten müht, mit den Errungenschaften der Moderne mitzuhalten. Sei es, daß modernere Maschinen, wie bspw. Mähdrescher, klassisches Farmerhandwerk ersetzen, allerdings auch bezahlt sein wollen, sei es das Automobil, das sich durchzusetzen beginnt und das neue Infrastrukturen benötigt, befestigte Straßen etwa, wodurch wiederum Aufträge und Investitionen ins County fließen usw. Während Links Ältester, Sherman, das väterliche Erbe als Farmer aufnimmt und versucht, den Gründerbemühungen des Vaters ebenso gerecht zu werden, wie seiner Familie, versteht sich Links zweiter Sohn Grant als ein Dandy, der sich von der Familie aushalten lässt und ansonsten mit den Mädchen des Dorfes poussiert. Sein Schicksal wird eines der härteren sein, von denen in diesem Buch berichtet wird. Links Töchter, Edie und Myrtle, und ihre Gatten, bzw. in Edies Fall der abhanden gekommene Gatte, leben die Leben von zwar selbstbewussten, doch noch längst nicht emanzipierten Frauen, die „gute Verbindungen“ eingehen müssen. Edie kommt zu Beginn des Buches zurück nach Verdon, weil ihr Mann sie verlassen hat und sie mit ihrem Jungen, dem kleinen Bob, nicht allein zurecht kommt. Myrtle, deren Mann Alfred, ein Brite, in der Bank arbeitet und diese nach und nach übernimmt, bleibt die blasseste der vier Geschwister, weitaus blasser als ihr Gatte. Es gibt noch einen Cousin, Jeff, dem es gelingt, aus der Rolle des Dorftrottels heraus eine politische Karriere zu machen, die ihn nicht nur in das Amt des Bezirksstaatsanwalts trägt, sondern gar bis in den Senat.
Weniger anhand einer stringenten und in sich geschlossenen Geschichte wird dieses Panorama ausgebreitet, als vielmehr entlang der Entwicklungen der Figuren. Episodenhaft werden die kleineren und größeren Begebenheiten aus den Leben dieser Menschen erzählt, während die Jahreszeiten den Rhythmus dieser Leben vorgeben und die Zeit noch vergleichsweise langsam vergeht. Thompson siedelt seine Geschichte, sein Panorama, bewusst um die Jahrhundertwende an, also zu einer Zeit, da Amerika noch nicht die Weltmacht, ja, im Grunde noch nicht einmal ein wirklich geschlossenes Staatsgebiet war. Zwar ist die Welt der Fargos weniger von Gewalt geprägt, als die anderer Thompson-Helden (besser: Antihelden), doch macht der Autor kein Hehl daraus, daß dieses Leben hart, sehr hart ist und dabei wenig Rücksicht genommen wird auf die Bedürfnisse von wem auch immer: Ob Ehefrau, Kind oder Tier, es wird gepeitscht, gezüchtigt, angetrieben und geflucht, was das Zeug hält. Zwar ist dieses County ein befriedetes, doch ist man in Verdon, Nebraska, verdammt weit weg von allem, ganz sicher von der „großen“ Politik Washingtons.
Thompson beweist aber schon in diesem frühen Werk seine Wachsamkeit, was soziale Schieflagen und vor allem das Bestreben eines anonymen Kapitalismus betrifft, der sich die Unwissenheit und Unbedarftheit einfacher Farmer zu Nutze macht, um bspw. Maschinen zu verkaufen, die in dem Moment vollkommen nutzlos sind, in dem man sich bemüht, Landwirtschaft so zu betreiben, daß die Böden erhalten bleiben und nicht erodieren. In einem fantastischen Dialog zwischen einem deutschen Farmer, der – auch dafür hatte Thompson Sinn – zwar auf seine Deutschstämmigkeit pocht, sich aber, stolz, als Amerikaner bezeichnet, und einem Vertreter für Landwirtschaftsmaschinen, werden wir Zeugen davon, wie einfache Lebensweisheit und generationenalte Kenntnisse Wissenschaft und – wichtiger – alle Marketing- und Verkaufskonzepte unterwandern kann. Das Spannungsfeld zwischen einem aufkommenden Finanzsystem, das sich aus Darlehen, Schuldscheinen, Krediten und Zins- sowie Zinseszins speist, und einer Bevölkerung, deren Rechensysteme sich an Wetter, Stürmen und Ernteerwartungen ausrichten, wird von Thompson hier wahrscheinlich so realistisch und genau beschrieben, wie sonst selten in seinen Werken. Sicher, was harte Arbeit bedeutet, wissen die meisten seiner Helden, außer jenen faulen Sheriffs, die lieber den lieben langen Tag gar nichts tun, doch die Arbeitsbedingungen bspw. auf den Ölfeldern in SOUTH OF HEAVEN (1967) werden oftmals überspitzt dargestellt, so daß das Amerika, in dem die Helden dieser späteren Werke leben, an sich schon Züge der Hölle trägt. Hier, in HEED THE THUNDER, ist die Bedrohung durch anonymisierte Banksysteme und neumodische Technologie deshalb so bedrückend, weil sie eben extrem realistisch gezeichnet wird. Thompson beweist in den wiederholten Hinweisen auf die „Deutschen“, die „Hunskys“ und andere, wie sehr er sich der Tatsache bewusst ist, daß Amerika eine Art Schmelztiegel sein sollte, wo der eine vom andern lernt, daß dem aber bei Weitem nicht so ist. Werden die Deutschen ob ihrer Tüchtigkeit und Ausdauer bewundert, wenn auch nicht geliebt, so werden bspw. die „Hunskys“ – Böhmischstämmige – abgelehnt und verachtet. Auch die religiösen Zugehörigkeiten spielen immer wieder eine Rolle. Ob wer katholischen Glaubens ist oder protestantisch, kann in einer Gemeinde fern ab von allem von großer Bedeutung sein.
Jim Thompson war ein Chronist der Schattenseiten amerikanischen Lebens, je länger er schriftstellerisch tätig war, desto düsterer wurde seine Welt, desto menschenfeindlicher die Schilderungen seines Personals. Hier ist sein Blick schon hart, doch ist die Analyse noch nicht von seiner Verachtung allen menschlichen Strebens geprägt. Eher malt er ein realistisches Gemälde ländlichen Lebens am Vorabend der Modernisierung durch Technisierung, zeigt auf, wie es kam, wie es dann wurde, er zeichnet die Wege des Kapitals ebenso nach, wie er die Anfälligkeit des Menschen für all jene kleinen Verführungen, wie er die Korrumpierbarkeit noch des Besten unter uns gnadenlos aufdeckt. Dabei reflektiert er durchaus auch das amerikanische demokratische System, das massiv durch Lobbyismus geprägt ist, aber auch davon, sich im richtigen Moment kaufen zu lassen, die richtigen Entscheidungen zum richtigen Zeitpunkt zu treffen und dann das richtige Druckmittel zu besitzen, um dem eigenen Anspruch Nachdruck zu verleihen. So, wie es HEED THE THUNDER ausstellt, verurteilt er diese Entwicklungen nicht einmal sonderlich.
Es sind – wie im shakespeareschen Drama – schließlich die menschlichen Wirrungen und (Ver)Irrungen, die die Katastrophen auslösen. In der grausamsten Szene des Buches, die in ihrer Brutalität dann durchaus den Stil antizipiert, den Thompson schließlich kultivieren und zu Meisterschaft bringen sollte, schlägt Alfred, Myrtles Mann, der seinerseits nach und nach dem syphilitischen Wahn verfällt und unter Alkoholeinfluß zu Aggression und Gewalttätigkeit neigt – sicher eine frühe Reflektion des Autors auf seinen eigenen übermäßigen Alkoholgenuß - , einen Jungen derart zusammen, daß der nicht nur entstellt bleibt, sondern auch seine kognitiven Fähigkeiten einbüßt. Es ist einerseits die Darstellung selbst, die erschüttert, mehr noch aber ist es Alfreds und auch Edies – zu ihrer Hilfe war Alfred geeilt, da der Junge Edie, die Lehrerin war, verulkte und sich über sie lustig machte - Kälte und Gleichgültigkeit gegenüber dem Schicksal eines Kindes, das den Leser empört. Thompson kehrt diesem Geschehen danach den Rücken, erinnert uns aber gelegentlich an das Opfer Mike Czerny, denn er wird es sein, der eines der Schicksale der Familie Fargo einst erfüllen wird. Die Abgründe der menschlichen Seele interessierten Thompson also von allem Anfang an ebenso, wie die politischen und sozialen Implikationen der Welt, die er beschreibt.
HEED THE THUNDER ist sicherlich nicht das beste Werk des Autors, es ist nicht einmal das, was man einen „echten Thompson“ nennen könnte. So ist es sicherlich für all jene interessant, die etwas über die Entwicklung dieses vornehmlichen Noir-Autors erfahren wollen. Aber auch Leser, die sich für Amerika interessieren, die Sittengemälde mögen und das große Bild menschlicher Verfehlungen, werden hier ganz sicher fündig. Denn auch, wenn hier noch nicht der Autor der späteren Werke spricht, rasant, gut lesbar, spannend und unterhaltsam ist auch dieses frühe Buch schon.
Beginnend ca. 1905, werden die Ereignisse und Begebenheiten rund um die Familie Fargo aus Verdon, Nebraska, über einen Zeitraum von etwa 10 Jahren erzählt. Die Fargos sind ein Clan, der – vom Patriarchen Lincoln „Link“ Fargo angeführt – eine große Farm betreibt, hauptsächlich Weizen anbaut und sich ansonsten müht, mit den Errungenschaften der Moderne mitzuhalten. Sei es, daß modernere Maschinen, wie bspw. Mähdrescher, klassisches Farmerhandwerk ersetzen, allerdings auch bezahlt sein wollen, sei es das Automobil, das sich durchzusetzen beginnt und das neue Infrastrukturen benötigt, befestigte Straßen etwa, wodurch wiederum Aufträge und Investitionen ins County fließen usw. Während Links Ältester, Sherman, das väterliche Erbe als Farmer aufnimmt und versucht, den Gründerbemühungen des Vaters ebenso gerecht zu werden, wie seiner Familie, versteht sich Links zweiter Sohn Grant als ein Dandy, der sich von der Familie aushalten lässt und ansonsten mit den Mädchen des Dorfes poussiert. Sein Schicksal wird eines der härteren sein, von denen in diesem Buch berichtet wird. Links Töchter, Edie und Myrtle, und ihre Gatten, bzw. in Edies Fall der abhanden gekommene Gatte, leben die Leben von zwar selbstbewussten, doch noch längst nicht emanzipierten Frauen, die „gute Verbindungen“ eingehen müssen. Edie kommt zu Beginn des Buches zurück nach Verdon, weil ihr Mann sie verlassen hat und sie mit ihrem Jungen, dem kleinen Bob, nicht allein zurecht kommt. Myrtle, deren Mann Alfred, ein Brite, in der Bank arbeitet und diese nach und nach übernimmt, bleibt die blasseste der vier Geschwister, weitaus blasser als ihr Gatte. Es gibt noch einen Cousin, Jeff, dem es gelingt, aus der Rolle des Dorftrottels heraus eine politische Karriere zu machen, die ihn nicht nur in das Amt des Bezirksstaatsanwalts trägt, sondern gar bis in den Senat.
Weniger anhand einer stringenten und in sich geschlossenen Geschichte wird dieses Panorama ausgebreitet, als vielmehr entlang der Entwicklungen der Figuren. Episodenhaft werden die kleineren und größeren Begebenheiten aus den Leben dieser Menschen erzählt, während die Jahreszeiten den Rhythmus dieser Leben vorgeben und die Zeit noch vergleichsweise langsam vergeht. Thompson siedelt seine Geschichte, sein Panorama, bewusst um die Jahrhundertwende an, also zu einer Zeit, da Amerika noch nicht die Weltmacht, ja, im Grunde noch nicht einmal ein wirklich geschlossenes Staatsgebiet war. Zwar ist die Welt der Fargos weniger von Gewalt geprägt, als die anderer Thompson-Helden (besser: Antihelden), doch macht der Autor kein Hehl daraus, daß dieses Leben hart, sehr hart ist und dabei wenig Rücksicht genommen wird auf die Bedürfnisse von wem auch immer: Ob Ehefrau, Kind oder Tier, es wird gepeitscht, gezüchtigt, angetrieben und geflucht, was das Zeug hält. Zwar ist dieses County ein befriedetes, doch ist man in Verdon, Nebraska, verdammt weit weg von allem, ganz sicher von der „großen“ Politik Washingtons.
Thompson beweist aber schon in diesem frühen Werk seine Wachsamkeit, was soziale Schieflagen und vor allem das Bestreben eines anonymen Kapitalismus betrifft, der sich die Unwissenheit und Unbedarftheit einfacher Farmer zu Nutze macht, um bspw. Maschinen zu verkaufen, die in dem Moment vollkommen nutzlos sind, in dem man sich bemüht, Landwirtschaft so zu betreiben, daß die Böden erhalten bleiben und nicht erodieren. In einem fantastischen Dialog zwischen einem deutschen Farmer, der – auch dafür hatte Thompson Sinn – zwar auf seine Deutschstämmigkeit pocht, sich aber, stolz, als Amerikaner bezeichnet, und einem Vertreter für Landwirtschaftsmaschinen, werden wir Zeugen davon, wie einfache Lebensweisheit und generationenalte Kenntnisse Wissenschaft und – wichtiger – alle Marketing- und Verkaufskonzepte unterwandern kann. Das Spannungsfeld zwischen einem aufkommenden Finanzsystem, das sich aus Darlehen, Schuldscheinen, Krediten und Zins- sowie Zinseszins speist, und einer Bevölkerung, deren Rechensysteme sich an Wetter, Stürmen und Ernteerwartungen ausrichten, wird von Thompson hier wahrscheinlich so realistisch und genau beschrieben, wie sonst selten in seinen Werken. Sicher, was harte Arbeit bedeutet, wissen die meisten seiner Helden, außer jenen faulen Sheriffs, die lieber den lieben langen Tag gar nichts tun, doch die Arbeitsbedingungen bspw. auf den Ölfeldern in SOUTH OF HEAVEN (1967) werden oftmals überspitzt dargestellt, so daß das Amerika, in dem die Helden dieser späteren Werke leben, an sich schon Züge der Hölle trägt. Hier, in HEED THE THUNDER, ist die Bedrohung durch anonymisierte Banksysteme und neumodische Technologie deshalb so bedrückend, weil sie eben extrem realistisch gezeichnet wird. Thompson beweist in den wiederholten Hinweisen auf die „Deutschen“, die „Hunskys“ und andere, wie sehr er sich der Tatsache bewusst ist, daß Amerika eine Art Schmelztiegel sein sollte, wo der eine vom andern lernt, daß dem aber bei Weitem nicht so ist. Werden die Deutschen ob ihrer Tüchtigkeit und Ausdauer bewundert, wenn auch nicht geliebt, so werden bspw. die „Hunskys“ – Böhmischstämmige – abgelehnt und verachtet. Auch die religiösen Zugehörigkeiten spielen immer wieder eine Rolle. Ob wer katholischen Glaubens ist oder protestantisch, kann in einer Gemeinde fern ab von allem von großer Bedeutung sein.
Jim Thompson war ein Chronist der Schattenseiten amerikanischen Lebens, je länger er schriftstellerisch tätig war, desto düsterer wurde seine Welt, desto menschenfeindlicher die Schilderungen seines Personals. Hier ist sein Blick schon hart, doch ist die Analyse noch nicht von seiner Verachtung allen menschlichen Strebens geprägt. Eher malt er ein realistisches Gemälde ländlichen Lebens am Vorabend der Modernisierung durch Technisierung, zeigt auf, wie es kam, wie es dann wurde, er zeichnet die Wege des Kapitals ebenso nach, wie er die Anfälligkeit des Menschen für all jene kleinen Verführungen, wie er die Korrumpierbarkeit noch des Besten unter uns gnadenlos aufdeckt. Dabei reflektiert er durchaus auch das amerikanische demokratische System, das massiv durch Lobbyismus geprägt ist, aber auch davon, sich im richtigen Moment kaufen zu lassen, die richtigen Entscheidungen zum richtigen Zeitpunkt zu treffen und dann das richtige Druckmittel zu besitzen, um dem eigenen Anspruch Nachdruck zu verleihen. So, wie es HEED THE THUNDER ausstellt, verurteilt er diese Entwicklungen nicht einmal sonderlich.
Es sind – wie im shakespeareschen Drama – schließlich die menschlichen Wirrungen und (Ver)Irrungen, die die Katastrophen auslösen. In der grausamsten Szene des Buches, die in ihrer Brutalität dann durchaus den Stil antizipiert, den Thompson schließlich kultivieren und zu Meisterschaft bringen sollte, schlägt Alfred, Myrtles Mann, der seinerseits nach und nach dem syphilitischen Wahn verfällt und unter Alkoholeinfluß zu Aggression und Gewalttätigkeit neigt – sicher eine frühe Reflektion des Autors auf seinen eigenen übermäßigen Alkoholgenuß - , einen Jungen derart zusammen, daß der nicht nur entstellt bleibt, sondern auch seine kognitiven Fähigkeiten einbüßt. Es ist einerseits die Darstellung selbst, die erschüttert, mehr noch aber ist es Alfreds und auch Edies – zu ihrer Hilfe war Alfred geeilt, da der Junge Edie, die Lehrerin war, verulkte und sich über sie lustig machte - Kälte und Gleichgültigkeit gegenüber dem Schicksal eines Kindes, das den Leser empört. Thompson kehrt diesem Geschehen danach den Rücken, erinnert uns aber gelegentlich an das Opfer Mike Czerny, denn er wird es sein, der eines der Schicksale der Familie Fargo einst erfüllen wird. Die Abgründe der menschlichen Seele interessierten Thompson also von allem Anfang an ebenso, wie die politischen und sozialen Implikationen der Welt, die er beschreibt.
HEED THE THUNDER ist sicherlich nicht das beste Werk des Autors, es ist nicht einmal das, was man einen „echten Thompson“ nennen könnte. So ist es sicherlich für all jene interessant, die etwas über die Entwicklung dieses vornehmlichen Noir-Autors erfahren wollen. Aber auch Leser, die sich für Amerika interessieren, die Sittengemälde mögen und das große Bild menschlicher Verfehlungen, werden hier ganz sicher fündig. Denn auch, wenn hier noch nicht der Autor der späteren Werke spricht, rasant, gut lesbar, spannend und unterhaltsam ist auch dieses frühe Buch schon.
Read
August 1, 2018Chronicling the downfall of the Fargo family, the Snopes of Kansas, basically, inbred, amoral, fiercely loyal to clan. A lot of what would make Thompson what Thompson was (one of the greatest American noir writers of the 20th century, which is to say, one of the greatest writers of the 20th century) is on display in this, his first book and to the best of my knowledge the only attempt he made at ‘literary’ rather than ‘genre’ fiction. His prose is brutally mean but very funny, and his lived experience shines through the pages. Also here is the stark moral outlook which a lot of reviewers seem to have missed—on the front cover the New York Review of Books proclaims ‘Thompson’s books are palpably evil..’ which is both 1) not really a compliment and 2) completely untrue, indeed so obviously and clearly untrue that one wonders if whoever reviewed this bothered to read the damn thing. Thompson is not a nihilist, not at all – Thompson is moralist, albeit one concerned with the doings of very bad, very sad people, people who inevitably get their tragic and miserable end. Heed the Thunder functions clearly and unambiguously as a critique of American capitalism, indeed of the American way of life, which Thompson (with uncomfortable accuracy) identifies as, basically, an obsessive desire to get yours before your neighbor gets his. It’s not a perfect first novel, but it is very good, well worth the time of any fan of Flannery O’Connor or rural gothic generally.
April 18, 2009
Thompson's best known for The Grifters. I'd never heard of Heed the Thunder but I took a flyer (gift from my father-in-law, who has excellent taste) and what do you know? Turns out that Thompson's work is engrossing, fascinating, horrifying and *funny*, gothic but real. All the adjectives you hope for in a novel, really. The specifics are the American midwest, early 20th century, small-town Gothic intrigue.
Quite an American masterpiece, I think.
Quite an American masterpiece, I think.
October 20, 2013
Heed the Thunder is an ambitious work by Thompson who considered making this novel the first of a projected trilogy. Per Robert Polito in his biography of Thompson "Savage Art" this book is "a panoramic country life chronicle after the model of Nebraska novelists Mari Sandoz and Willa Cather, a scurrilous family history, and a brutish descent into degradation, sadism, incest, homicide, and dementia." In his short introduction, James Ellroy believes Thompson's influences to possibly be Dreiser and Sinclair Lewis. I see possible traces of Sherwood Anderson, Edgar Lee Masters, John O'Hara, and Faulkner. The book is an expose of a Nebraska farming town shortly prior to the outbreak of World War I.
Ellroy states Thompson to be "flirting" with "horror" in this book while correctly noting that Thompson has "essential sympathy for his characters." In fact, the book contains many autobiographical references which caused distress in his hometown in the way "Look Homeward Angel" by Thomas Wolfe vexed the residents Wolfe's hometown of Asheville. It is true some horrible events occur in the novel, but the horror is balanced with humor. Thompson addresses serious themes like the changing of society with the rise of the railroads, industry, and corporations. Many plot lines are left available for the sequels which never came.
Ellroy states Thompson to be "flirting" with "horror" in this book while correctly noting that Thompson has "essential sympathy for his characters." In fact, the book contains many autobiographical references which caused distress in his hometown in the way "Look Homeward Angel" by Thomas Wolfe vexed the residents Wolfe's hometown of Asheville. It is true some horrible events occur in the novel, but the horror is balanced with humor. Thompson addresses serious themes like the changing of society with the rise of the railroads, industry, and corporations. Many plot lines are left available for the sequels which never came.
December 10, 2018
The first Jim Thompson book I've read (the second one he wrote) but it will not be the last. This is small town America without the feel-good ending, an American family group with dysfunction at its heart. Dark reading but thoroughly enjoyable. Recommended.
May 18, 2020
Jim Thompson is quickly rising on my list of favorite authors to read. The "dime-store Dostoevsky" really hit the post Knives Out sweet spot with this tale of one seriously dysfunctional family.
July 31, 2025
Jim Thompson es Dios. Sus novelas son auténticos derechazos a la mandíbula. Brutal, adictivo. Un chute de pura adrenalina.
February 15, 2022
Lincoln Fargo, the patriarch of the Fargo clan, at the beginning of the book, is 60 or 65, he doesn't know which. In this musing on his front porch, I could relate:
"it was strange, shocking, the number of things he no longer cared about, could no longer trust. He had seen and had all that was within his power to see and have. He knew the total, the absolute lines of his periphery. Nothing could be added. There was now only the process of taking away. He wondered if it was like that with everyone, and he decided that it must be. And he wondered how they felt, and reasoned that they must feel about as he. That was all there was to life: a gift that was slowly taken away from you. An Indian gift. You started out with a handful of something and ended up with a handful of nothing. The best things were taken away from you last when you needed them worst. When you were at the bottom of the pot, when there was no longer a reason for life, then you died. It was probably a good thing.
he had no use for Life. Very little, at any rate.
He was pretty well stripped, but it had been a good long game and the amusement was worth something. It wasn't so much the loss as the losing he minded. If there were some way of calling the thing a draw, he would have pulled back his chair willingly enough."
Grant Fargo, Lincoln's son, is a bum dAndy. He likes to dress well, but he has no money and no job. He lives off his parents. He used to be a printer, but when they brought in the linotypes, he refused to learn to run them, so he lost his job.
This is strange parallel to my own life. I used to be a printer. I was a printer who set type on IBM selectrics, I was a printer when they came out with computer typesetting machines, but when they came out with desktop publishing, that spelled the end of my career. That's when all the companies that used to buy the typesetting shop's work, bought their own machines, and set their type in-house. Ah, such is life:
"...'you, now. How long have you been here?'
'if it's important,' said Grant, 'it's approximately 3 years.'
Lincoln studied the answer, nodded a reluctant agreement.
'I guess it ain't any longer than that. But, here you are – young, strong, a man, no one to look after but yourself and with a good trade. And you won't work. You're willin' to go on forever, living off your parents, begging spending money –'
'that ain't -- that's not fair!' Grant cried out indignantly. 'I'm quite willing, anxious to work. How do you suppose I feel after spending half my life to learn a trade and then be put out of a job by a machine! I've worked on the Dallas News and the Star in Kansas City and -- '
'seems to me I'd learn how to run one of the machines.'
'I won't! Never!' Grand exclaimed so hotly that his father almost looked upon him with favor. He liked a man with principles, even if they were the wrong kind. 'I'll set type by hand, like it was meant to be set, or not at all!' "
I had an older brother like that. He moved back to Albuquerque with my mom and dad when they retired, saying that he would take care of them when they got old. But when my mom died, he resented having to take care of my dad. My dad got so sick, I brought him home to live with me, then my brother went to go live with his caretaker. He ended up in a nursing home in New Mexico all alone, though I looked after him from far away in San Jose California. He got covid in November of 2020 and died. I miss him :-(
Myrtle Fargo, who is married to Alfred, the banker's assistant, doesn't have anything to do during the day while Alfred is at work, so she goes to visit her cousin Bella.
This reminds me of my mama:
"she was a tall, well-built girl with a daring coiffure which allowed a black curling Fringe of bangs across her forehead. Now, as she Coolly looked at Myrtle, an unpleasant smile curving her red lips, she drew the robe more tightly around her and gave the bangs a bored Pat.
'Well?' she said.
'why -- why, I was just passing by, Bella...'
'yes?'
'well – well, I hadn't seen you in such a long time, I thought I'd just stop in and see how you were.'
'I'm all right,' said Bella. 'I've been lying down.'
'oh. Well, I hope you haven't been ill.'
'no. But I'm going to lie down again.'
'well... Well, if you're lying down, you must be ill.'
'not necessarily,' said Bella, and a secret amusement grew in the malicious depths of her eyes. 'is that the only time you lie down?'
Myrtle reddened. She stammered idiotic meaningless things. She heard herself asking if she could borrow a cup of tea, though goodness knew tea was the one thing she and Alfred always had plenty of." My mama was of the persuasion that if you are lying down in the daytime, you must be sick. That's I guess the Midwest way of thinking?
The salesman for the harvester company, which sells farming equipment in the valley where Verdun is, is extremely talented at his job. Except for when he visits mr. Deutsch, the German.
" 'good. I will buy a stacker from you, also a baler. The best grade you have, please.'
'well, say!' beamed the salesman. 'I'm certainly glad to get your order. And you're getting it in at just the right time, too. A month or so from now I might not be able to handle it for you.'
'so?'
'yep. It looks like we're about to have a strike on our hands. A bunch of these radicals have got together and are asking for a 10-hour day, and an hour for lunch, and a lot of fancy stuff like restrooms and doctors to look after 'em when they hurt their little fingers or get a backache... Oh, it's a sight, mr. Deutsch! You just couldn't believe the nerve of some of them birds....'
his voice trailed off into silence, and his heavy face fell ludicrously. For he had become suddenly conscious that his usually adaptable personality had again struck a discord with the old man.
'I guess I'd better keep my mouth shut,' he said babyishly. 'I seem to put my foot in it, everything I say.'
'Noo,' said the old man Mildly, 'I was just going to ask why the company didn't give the men what they wanted.'
'well – but but why should they! They don't have to! There's plenty of other men that'll be darned glad to have their jobs!'
Deutsch shook his head and looked away, seemingly absorbed in a flight of crows hovering over a distant haystuck. He was thinking that the cities, perhaps, needed to look into the future even more than the country did. They should look ahead for 40, 80, 160 years, to a strong and healthy plain of population – or to an overworked, weakened, underfed, and infertile desert.
The salesman smiled patronizingly. 'you just don't understand how it is with these unions, mr. Deutsch. You've lived on a farm all your life.'
'I have not,' said the farmer. 'in the old country, in Mecklenburg, I worked in a factory for a number of years. It was a fire brick factory, and we had a very good union there. We had restrooms, and medical attention, and a 10-hour day. Although we could work longer for extra pay – and twice a day we had periods in which to rest and eat. Vendors were admitted at those time with sandwiches, cakes, coffee, beer...'
'haw, haw!' Simpson guffawed, making one last effort to get himself in Deutsch's good graces. 'I'll bet you didn't get much work done, did you?'
the farmer sighed. Stooping, he picked up a brown Clod and crumbled it between his fingers. 'perhaps,' he said, 'we had better be moving along.'
This makes me sad.
Jeff Parker, Verden's only lawyer, is so naive. When he is elected to the legislature, he goes to the state capitol in Lincoln, Nebraska, for the first time. He thinks he'll spend up to $4 a week for a hotel, and he's worried that he won't be able to find one that cheap, because his job doesn't pay much. Finding one that looks fairly respectable, Jeff asks at the counter how much it costs. The boy tells him $3. Still thinking that's the weekly price, Parker takes a room there. He is surprised to find that it has its own bath, but he thinks that's supposed to be for the whole hallway, so when he goes to take a bath, he hangs a sign on the door of his room that says:
taking bath.
Come in.
U-R next.
When he gets out of the bathtub, he sees a fat man sitting on his bed. This is the beginning of the loss of his innocence:
"the fat man reached into his inside pocket and withdrew an envelope. He tossed it onto the dresser. 'that envelope has $1,000 in it. No, hold on! Listen to what I've got to say. That money is yours no matter what kind of opinion you give me. If it's adverse to the railroad's interests, it's still yours. I'll leave it there, and thank you, and get up and walk out. Now, that's not bribery, is it?'
Jeff grinned. 'sure, it is.'
'no, it's not, senator. It's merely a retainer for interests – adverse or favorable – in the railroad's affairs. I'm not going to force it on you; but I am going to ask you a question: how do you expect to live on your salary as a legislator?'
'why, I'll get by all right,' the attorney declared.
'How? What are you paying for this room – three or four dollars a day?"'
'three or four dollars a day!' Jeff exclaimed. 'of course not. I'm paying –' he choked, suddenly, as a hideous fear billowed over him. Livid and shaking, he sank down upon the bed.
'Umm-hmm,' said Cassidy. 'a lot of the boys make that mistake.'
'I've got to get out of here!'
'where are you going to? What's a prominent man, a man of affairs like you, going to do -- stop in a flophouse? That's just about what your salary would pay for. You'd probably have to do your own washing, at that.'
'well – how do all the other legislators get by?'
Cassidy spread his hands. 'how do you think?'
'are you sure,' said Jeff, miserably, 'that they're charging me $3 a day?'
'there's a rate card on the door, if you want to check it. And that doesn't include meals; it's actually the smallest part of your expenses. I suppose'--he squinted thoughtfully – 'you might live on twice your salary. If you were very careful.' "
Alfred Courtland has had a rash on his chest for years. He keeps ordering some pomade, that has mercury in it, and rubs it on his chest, which helps the itching. When he steals the money from his boss, Bella's father, and goes to Lincoln to bank it, he goes to a doctor to get a thorough medical work-up:
"Tower scrubbed his hands and left the room, not to return again in Courtland's presencd. The big doctor looked at Courtland thoughtfully and shook his head. And the air of the room suddenly seemed stifling to the Englishman.
'is it something serious?' He asked.
McClintic made no answer. Stepping around to the end of the table, he slid his hand under the back of courtland's head.
'married, Mister courtland?'
'no.'
'that's good. Very good.'
'I am married,' said Courtland, abruptly. 'is there anything –'
'no children?'
'no.'
'well, that's good, at least. Are you pretty well fixed, financially?'
'quite.'
'that's good, too. Can you feel my finger fingers there – do you know what part of the brain that is?'
'I used to, but I don't anymore.'
'that's the cerebellum. It's the coordination or inhibiting center for the cerebrum and the medulla oblongata. To oversimplify, it keeps the other brains on the right track – stops 'em from making damned fools of themselves.'
'I see.'
'I don't believe I'd drink anymore if I were you mr. Courtland. You need to have that little hinder brain in as good working order as possible. What there is left of it.'
Coyrtland sat up with a cry.'What there is left of it! What do you mean?'
'I'm sorry. You have syphilis of the brain.' "
Edie's Son Robert, is a nine-year-old hurricane of a little boy; he gets in more trouble than any boy I've ever heard of. When Edie finds a job teaching school in another district, she leaves her boy at her parent's home, where his grandfather takes care of him. When his grandfather and his cronies are playing a card game in the theater, out of sheer boredom Bob gets into the craziest of schemes:
"in the nine-year-old mind, one object immediately demands comparison with another; and the bologna presented no problem to Bob whatsoever. Yet the thing was at once too simple and too difficult. He could not picture himself strolling down the street, employing the sausage as a caricature of the only bodily member which it closely resembled, without seeing unavoidable disaster for himself. Reluctantly, for the scheme had startling possibilities, he gave it up and picked up the long wedge-shaped chunk of liver.
It was some moments before he could decide what the liver was, and when the solution came to him, he was amazed that it had not come to him sooner. It was a tomgue, of course. Anybody could see it was a tongue. That's what it was. A tongue. And a person would have to be very nicey-nice indeed to object to a boy's showing his tongue.
Stretching his lips, he forced the broad end of the slimy meat in over his gums, and stood up in front of the mirror. The result was even better than he had hoped for.
He took a handful of soap, worked it into a lather, and spread it over the 'tongue,' ringing his lips with the froth.
he bugged his eyes and almost frightened himself.
peeking out at the players, he carefully inched the screen around until it shielded the window. He started to lean out; then his bugged eyes fell upon the curtain cord. That was it. The final touch.
He looped the cord around his neck.
Then, eyess popping, 'tongue' and mouth drooling, arms waving in frantic appeal, he leaned out over the street.
Little Paulie Pulasky was the first to see him. She had watched him go into the opera house, and had lingered in front of her father's store solely for the pleasure of looking upon him again. She giggled when she saw The apparition at the window, not recognizing it as her own and greatly beloved Bobby Dillon. But seeing him for who he was at last, seeing him perish before her very eyes, she set up such a weeping and wailing that the street was almost instantly filled."
As another reader wrote in her review, "this is NASTY. And good."
the cast of small-minded characters in this valley in the Nebraska of the late 19th century is so creatively crafted, and the story so sneaks up on you, and takes you over, that it's just delightful.
A fairly different kind of Jim Thompson novel. It's my favorite so far.
"it was strange, shocking, the number of things he no longer cared about, could no longer trust. He had seen and had all that was within his power to see and have. He knew the total, the absolute lines of his periphery. Nothing could be added. There was now only the process of taking away. He wondered if it was like that with everyone, and he decided that it must be. And he wondered how they felt, and reasoned that they must feel about as he. That was all there was to life: a gift that was slowly taken away from you. An Indian gift. You started out with a handful of something and ended up with a handful of nothing. The best things were taken away from you last when you needed them worst. When you were at the bottom of the pot, when there was no longer a reason for life, then you died. It was probably a good thing.
he had no use for Life. Very little, at any rate.
He was pretty well stripped, but it had been a good long game and the amusement was worth something. It wasn't so much the loss as the losing he minded. If there were some way of calling the thing a draw, he would have pulled back his chair willingly enough."
Grant Fargo, Lincoln's son, is a bum dAndy. He likes to dress well, but he has no money and no job. He lives off his parents. He used to be a printer, but when they brought in the linotypes, he refused to learn to run them, so he lost his job.
This is strange parallel to my own life. I used to be a printer. I was a printer who set type on IBM selectrics, I was a printer when they came out with computer typesetting machines, but when they came out with desktop publishing, that spelled the end of my career. That's when all the companies that used to buy the typesetting shop's work, bought their own machines, and set their type in-house. Ah, such is life:
"...'you, now. How long have you been here?'
'if it's important,' said Grant, 'it's approximately 3 years.'
Lincoln studied the answer, nodded a reluctant agreement.
'I guess it ain't any longer than that. But, here you are – young, strong, a man, no one to look after but yourself and with a good trade. And you won't work. You're willin' to go on forever, living off your parents, begging spending money –'
'that ain't -- that's not fair!' Grant cried out indignantly. 'I'm quite willing, anxious to work. How do you suppose I feel after spending half my life to learn a trade and then be put out of a job by a machine! I've worked on the Dallas News and the Star in Kansas City and -- '
'seems to me I'd learn how to run one of the machines.'
'I won't! Never!' Grand exclaimed so hotly that his father almost looked upon him with favor. He liked a man with principles, even if they were the wrong kind. 'I'll set type by hand, like it was meant to be set, or not at all!' "
I had an older brother like that. He moved back to Albuquerque with my mom and dad when they retired, saying that he would take care of them when they got old. But when my mom died, he resented having to take care of my dad. My dad got so sick, I brought him home to live with me, then my brother went to go live with his caretaker. He ended up in a nursing home in New Mexico all alone, though I looked after him from far away in San Jose California. He got covid in November of 2020 and died. I miss him :-(
Myrtle Fargo, who is married to Alfred, the banker's assistant, doesn't have anything to do during the day while Alfred is at work, so she goes to visit her cousin Bella.
This reminds me of my mama:
"she was a tall, well-built girl with a daring coiffure which allowed a black curling Fringe of bangs across her forehead. Now, as she Coolly looked at Myrtle, an unpleasant smile curving her red lips, she drew the robe more tightly around her and gave the bangs a bored Pat.
'Well?' she said.
'why -- why, I was just passing by, Bella...'
'yes?'
'well – well, I hadn't seen you in such a long time, I thought I'd just stop in and see how you were.'
'I'm all right,' said Bella. 'I've been lying down.'
'oh. Well, I hope you haven't been ill.'
'no. But I'm going to lie down again.'
'well... Well, if you're lying down, you must be ill.'
'not necessarily,' said Bella, and a secret amusement grew in the malicious depths of her eyes. 'is that the only time you lie down?'
Myrtle reddened. She stammered idiotic meaningless things. She heard herself asking if she could borrow a cup of tea, though goodness knew tea was the one thing she and Alfred always had plenty of." My mama was of the persuasion that if you are lying down in the daytime, you must be sick. That's I guess the Midwest way of thinking?
The salesman for the harvester company, which sells farming equipment in the valley where Verdun is, is extremely talented at his job. Except for when he visits mr. Deutsch, the German.
" 'good. I will buy a stacker from you, also a baler. The best grade you have, please.'
'well, say!' beamed the salesman. 'I'm certainly glad to get your order. And you're getting it in at just the right time, too. A month or so from now I might not be able to handle it for you.'
'so?'
'yep. It looks like we're about to have a strike on our hands. A bunch of these radicals have got together and are asking for a 10-hour day, and an hour for lunch, and a lot of fancy stuff like restrooms and doctors to look after 'em when they hurt their little fingers or get a backache... Oh, it's a sight, mr. Deutsch! You just couldn't believe the nerve of some of them birds....'
his voice trailed off into silence, and his heavy face fell ludicrously. For he had become suddenly conscious that his usually adaptable personality had again struck a discord with the old man.
'I guess I'd better keep my mouth shut,' he said babyishly. 'I seem to put my foot in it, everything I say.'
'Noo,' said the old man Mildly, 'I was just going to ask why the company didn't give the men what they wanted.'
'well – but but why should they! They don't have to! There's plenty of other men that'll be darned glad to have their jobs!'
Deutsch shook his head and looked away, seemingly absorbed in a flight of crows hovering over a distant haystuck. He was thinking that the cities, perhaps, needed to look into the future even more than the country did. They should look ahead for 40, 80, 160 years, to a strong and healthy plain of population – or to an overworked, weakened, underfed, and infertile desert.
The salesman smiled patronizingly. 'you just don't understand how it is with these unions, mr. Deutsch. You've lived on a farm all your life.'
'I have not,' said the farmer. 'in the old country, in Mecklenburg, I worked in a factory for a number of years. It was a fire brick factory, and we had a very good union there. We had restrooms, and medical attention, and a 10-hour day. Although we could work longer for extra pay – and twice a day we had periods in which to rest and eat. Vendors were admitted at those time with sandwiches, cakes, coffee, beer...'
'haw, haw!' Simpson guffawed, making one last effort to get himself in Deutsch's good graces. 'I'll bet you didn't get much work done, did you?'
the farmer sighed. Stooping, he picked up a brown Clod and crumbled it between his fingers. 'perhaps,' he said, 'we had better be moving along.'
This makes me sad.
Jeff Parker, Verden's only lawyer, is so naive. When he is elected to the legislature, he goes to the state capitol in Lincoln, Nebraska, for the first time. He thinks he'll spend up to $4 a week for a hotel, and he's worried that he won't be able to find one that cheap, because his job doesn't pay much. Finding one that looks fairly respectable, Jeff asks at the counter how much it costs. The boy tells him $3. Still thinking that's the weekly price, Parker takes a room there. He is surprised to find that it has its own bath, but he thinks that's supposed to be for the whole hallway, so when he goes to take a bath, he hangs a sign on the door of his room that says:
taking bath.
Come in.
U-R next.
When he gets out of the bathtub, he sees a fat man sitting on his bed. This is the beginning of the loss of his innocence:
"the fat man reached into his inside pocket and withdrew an envelope. He tossed it onto the dresser. 'that envelope has $1,000 in it. No, hold on! Listen to what I've got to say. That money is yours no matter what kind of opinion you give me. If it's adverse to the railroad's interests, it's still yours. I'll leave it there, and thank you, and get up and walk out. Now, that's not bribery, is it?'
Jeff grinned. 'sure, it is.'
'no, it's not, senator. It's merely a retainer for interests – adverse or favorable – in the railroad's affairs. I'm not going to force it on you; but I am going to ask you a question: how do you expect to live on your salary as a legislator?'
'why, I'll get by all right,' the attorney declared.
'How? What are you paying for this room – three or four dollars a day?"'
'three or four dollars a day!' Jeff exclaimed. 'of course not. I'm paying –' he choked, suddenly, as a hideous fear billowed over him. Livid and shaking, he sank down upon the bed.
'Umm-hmm,' said Cassidy. 'a lot of the boys make that mistake.'
'I've got to get out of here!'
'where are you going to? What's a prominent man, a man of affairs like you, going to do -- stop in a flophouse? That's just about what your salary would pay for. You'd probably have to do your own washing, at that.'
'well – how do all the other legislators get by?'
Cassidy spread his hands. 'how do you think?'
'are you sure,' said Jeff, miserably, 'that they're charging me $3 a day?'
'there's a rate card on the door, if you want to check it. And that doesn't include meals; it's actually the smallest part of your expenses. I suppose'--he squinted thoughtfully – 'you might live on twice your salary. If you were very careful.' "
Alfred Courtland has had a rash on his chest for years. He keeps ordering some pomade, that has mercury in it, and rubs it on his chest, which helps the itching. When he steals the money from his boss, Bella's father, and goes to Lincoln to bank it, he goes to a doctor to get a thorough medical work-up:
"Tower scrubbed his hands and left the room, not to return again in Courtland's presencd. The big doctor looked at Courtland thoughtfully and shook his head. And the air of the room suddenly seemed stifling to the Englishman.
'is it something serious?' He asked.
McClintic made no answer. Stepping around to the end of the table, he slid his hand under the back of courtland's head.
'married, Mister courtland?'
'no.'
'that's good. Very good.'
'I am married,' said Courtland, abruptly. 'is there anything –'
'no children?'
'no.'
'well, that's good, at least. Are you pretty well fixed, financially?'
'quite.'
'that's good, too. Can you feel my finger fingers there – do you know what part of the brain that is?'
'I used to, but I don't anymore.'
'that's the cerebellum. It's the coordination or inhibiting center for the cerebrum and the medulla oblongata. To oversimplify, it keeps the other brains on the right track – stops 'em from making damned fools of themselves.'
'I see.'
'I don't believe I'd drink anymore if I were you mr. Courtland. You need to have that little hinder brain in as good working order as possible. What there is left of it.'
Coyrtland sat up with a cry.'What there is left of it! What do you mean?'
'I'm sorry. You have syphilis of the brain.' "
Edie's Son Robert, is a nine-year-old hurricane of a little boy; he gets in more trouble than any boy I've ever heard of. When Edie finds a job teaching school in another district, she leaves her boy at her parent's home, where his grandfather takes care of him. When his grandfather and his cronies are playing a card game in the theater, out of sheer boredom Bob gets into the craziest of schemes:
"in the nine-year-old mind, one object immediately demands comparison with another; and the bologna presented no problem to Bob whatsoever. Yet the thing was at once too simple and too difficult. He could not picture himself strolling down the street, employing the sausage as a caricature of the only bodily member which it closely resembled, without seeing unavoidable disaster for himself. Reluctantly, for the scheme had startling possibilities, he gave it up and picked up the long wedge-shaped chunk of liver.
It was some moments before he could decide what the liver was, and when the solution came to him, he was amazed that it had not come to him sooner. It was a tomgue, of course. Anybody could see it was a tongue. That's what it was. A tongue. And a person would have to be very nicey-nice indeed to object to a boy's showing his tongue.
Stretching his lips, he forced the broad end of the slimy meat in over his gums, and stood up in front of the mirror. The result was even better than he had hoped for.
He took a handful of soap, worked it into a lather, and spread it over the 'tongue,' ringing his lips with the froth.
he bugged his eyes and almost frightened himself.
peeking out at the players, he carefully inched the screen around until it shielded the window. He started to lean out; then his bugged eyes fell upon the curtain cord. That was it. The final touch.
He looped the cord around his neck.
Then, eyess popping, 'tongue' and mouth drooling, arms waving in frantic appeal, he leaned out over the street.
Little Paulie Pulasky was the first to see him. She had watched him go into the opera house, and had lingered in front of her father's store solely for the pleasure of looking upon him again. She giggled when she saw The apparition at the window, not recognizing it as her own and greatly beloved Bobby Dillon. But seeing him for who he was at last, seeing him perish before her very eyes, she set up such a weeping and wailing that the street was almost instantly filled."
As another reader wrote in her review, "this is NASTY. And good."
the cast of small-minded characters in this valley in the Nebraska of the late 19th century is so creatively crafted, and the story so sneaks up on you, and takes you over, that it's just delightful.
A fairly different kind of Jim Thompson novel. It's my favorite so far.
March 13, 2017
This is far from Thompson's best, but it's far from his worst too. This is a quirky, quasi-family history that apparently upset the author's folks upon its publication. Although it tries for an epic sweep, the tone of the thing is of dark comedy and the ending peters out. Despite this, I found Heed the Thunder enjoyable, but it's true that this is for hardcore Jim Thompson fans only.
January 11, 2016
(3.5) Aside from Savage Night, this is probably my least favorite Jim Thompson work. Mind you any Thompson is good, and I liked large parts of this, but it left a lot to be desired. It's his second novel and you can see he hasn't quite grasped his writing style yet. Also, there were almost too many characters to keep count or get invested in. Novels of his that have large character counts like The Criminal and The Kill-Off work mostly because there is one crime that is the trunk of the novel to which the characters hang off like branches. This book serves as a quasi-anthology, which isn't really his style (or at least the style he is suited to). Still good and still worth reading if you're a fan.
November 16, 2025
Thompson's second novel is a colorful picture of a small town dominated by the relatives of a crusty Civil War veteran. There's an odd mix of humor and horror, so the reader may feel somewhat whipsawed by the tone, simultaneously cynical and nostalgic. I've often thought that Thompson was more of a horror writer than a crime writer, for what that distinction is worth, and the sequences here involving the town monster provide pretty good evidence.
October 30, 2014
Meandering tale of a Nebraskan extended family in pre-depression small town USA. A negative view of the (lack of) morality of Poverty.
March 17, 2025
Jim Thompson's attempt at a domestic crime drama version of The Magnificent Ambersons or The Idiot follows the Fargoes in Heed the Thunder, a series of occurrences that include murder and tragedy. Thompson has a knack for capturing the essence of rural dialect while maintaining a sort of pastoral edge. There are signs of a fledgling writer of pulp noir for magazines where the closest available adverb may do. In between are desperate people living in the shadow of their own legacy. Even as it gets taken out from under them. Industry and capital really does change a person but a primal urge always festers underneath in Thompson's work, further dooming the already-damned.
March 4, 2020
A violent, beautiful, and heartbreaking family epic from the dark side of the American heartland. Damn, Thompson can write.
January 25, 2021
This book was NASTY and delightful
April 17, 2023
A sprawling family saga
April 12, 2025
Very early Thompson. Not much crime, oh the words, the characters, the despair! He out-Erskines Erskine Caldwell. Think Tobacco Road in Nebraska or God’s Little 160 Acres.
December 31, 2014
Heed the Thunder is a multigenerational tale about the Fargoes. The Fargoes, a rather dysfunctional clan live in Verdon, Nebraska at the turn of the century. Lincoln Fargo, the patriarch, former Union soldier, schemer and conniver - acquired some land got married and prospered. This led to other Fargoes gravitating to Verdon.
A series of interconnected events centering on interesting characters and their ambitions drives the plot.
A couple of notable characters are: Grant Fargo- Lincoln Fargo’s son who is having an incestuous relationship with his cousin, Bella. Jeff Parker, a charismatic lawyer who makes it all the way to attorney general; his claim to fame being that he once sued God.
The author even manages to squeeze in some social commentary about working conditions, unscrupulous corporations and crooked politicians. Great read!
A series of interconnected events centering on interesting characters and their ambitions drives the plot.
A couple of notable characters are: Grant Fargo- Lincoln Fargo’s son who is having an incestuous relationship with his cousin, Bella. Jeff Parker, a charismatic lawyer who makes it all the way to attorney general; his claim to fame being that he once sued God.
The author even manages to squeeze in some social commentary about working conditions, unscrupulous corporations and crooked politicians. Great read!
This entire review has been hidden because of spoilers.
September 20, 2015
Magnífica historia y sobre todo magníficos personajes.
Último párrafo, sin spoilers, que resume el espíritu del libro:
"La tierra. La buena tierra, la mala tierra, la regular, la tierra hermosa, la fea, la tierra hogareña, la tierra amable y la odiosa; la tierra con sus torres altas, sus graneros grandes, sus casas espaciosas, sus pozos de polea, sus cabañas abandonadas, sus corrales; la tierra con sus pequeños pueblos y ciudades, ciudades grandes y pequeñas, sus herrerías y fábricas, sus escuelas de una única clase; la tierra de los húngaros, la de los rusos, la de los alemanes, los holandeses y los suecos, la tierra de los protestantes y de los católicos y de los judíos: la tierra de los americanos... La misma tierra que ahora se deslizaba con seguridad y delicadeza hacia el gran abismo de la noche."
Último párrafo, sin spoilers, que resume el espíritu del libro:
"La tierra. La buena tierra, la mala tierra, la regular, la tierra hermosa, la fea, la tierra hogareña, la tierra amable y la odiosa; la tierra con sus torres altas, sus graneros grandes, sus casas espaciosas, sus pozos de polea, sus cabañas abandonadas, sus corrales; la tierra con sus pequeños pueblos y ciudades, ciudades grandes y pequeñas, sus herrerías y fábricas, sus escuelas de una única clase; la tierra de los húngaros, la de los rusos, la de los alemanes, los holandeses y los suecos, la tierra de los protestantes y de los católicos y de los judíos: la tierra de los americanos... La misma tierra que ahora se deslizaba con seguridad y delicadeza hacia el gran abismo de la noche."
February 27, 2016
I wasn't sure what I was getting into when I started the book. A noir? A thriller? It turns out neither, as Heed the Thunder is the 7 year examination of the Fargo family, a clan that populates the town of Verdon, Nebraska. What I enjoyed about this post war novel were the (at the time?) progressive themes of ecology and socialism. Thompson's swipes at corrupt government, corrupt corporations, and worker abuse sound particularly timely. My favourite subplot involved Jeff Parker, a paralegal, who continually gets elected into higher offices of responsibility due to his corruptible behaviour.
Highly recommended for people not afraid to have a dictionary nearby them while reading.
Highly recommended for people not afraid to have a dictionary nearby them while reading.
This entire review has been hidden because of spoilers.
June 4, 2009
Oddly plotless chronicle of more than a decade with the Fargo family in the farm town of Verdon, Nebraska. Or perhaps it's more accurate to say that this novel has a profusion of small plots, none of which stick around long enough to be deeply engaging. Not bad, but somehow I had expected a bit more thunder.
November 24, 2012
This book was interesting to me from the perspective that Thompson's voice isn't quite mature yet, but you can hear where it's going. He's funny, grim, edgy and fearless with his characters here, yet for me there was almost too much going on. The narrative had a real Steinbeck quality to it - Steinbeck if his head was ringing dark because he had a badly infected toe.
October 26, 2007
more southern gothic (set in the midwest) than crime novel, i found thompson's second novel uneven but affecting, with scenes of true horror.
August 31, 2011
Good, but Thompson's writing gets better in his later novels. A hell of a Woman and The Killer Inside Me are his best.
September 22, 2013
I'm a big Jim Thompson fan, but I couldn't finish this one. He really shines in his later works.
January 20, 2016
Thompson's second novel from 1946 offers a decidedly unromantic look at small town Nebraska in the early 1900s and hints at the classic hard-boiled crime novels to come.
February 20, 2025
Dull as church.
Displaying 1 - 29 of 29 reviews