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Factory Series #1
He Died with His Eyes Open
When a middle-aged alcoholic is found brutally battered to death on a roadside in West London, the case is assigned to a tough-talking cynic from the Department of Unexplained Deaths. Our narrator must piece together the history of his blighted existence and discover the agents of its cruel end. What he doesn’t expect is that digging for the truth will demand plenty of lying.
288 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1984
83 people are currently reading
4813 people want to read
About the author
Derek Raymond
19 books138 followersAka Robin Cook.
Pen name for Robert William Arthur Cook. Born into privilege, Raymond attended Eton before completing his National Service. Raymond moved to France in the 50's before eventually returning to London in the 60's. His first book, 'Crust on its Uppers,' released in 1962 under his real name, was well-received but brought few sales. Moving through Italy he abandoned writing before returning to London. In 1984 he released the first of the Factory Series, 'He Died With His Eyes Open' under the name Derek Raymond. Following 'The Devil's Home On Leave' and 'How The Dead Live' he released his major work 'I Was Dora Suarez' in 1990. His memoirs were released as 'The Hidden Files'.
Pen name for Robert William Arthur Cook. Born into privilege, Raymond attended Eton before completing his National Service. Raymond moved to France in the 50's before eventually returning to London in the 60's. His first book, 'Crust on its Uppers,' released in 1962 under his real name, was well-received but brought few sales. Moving through Italy he abandoned writing before returning to London. In 1984 he released the first of the Factory Series, 'He Died With His Eyes Open' under the name Derek Raymond. Following 'The Devil's Home On Leave' and 'How The Dead Live' he released his major work 'I Was Dora Suarez' in 1990. His memoirs were released as 'The Hidden Files'.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 305 reviews
January 2, 2014
A man of little consequence is found brutally murdered and the Detective Sergeant of the Department of Unexplained Deaths is given the case. It seems Staniland, the victim, was a writer, and has left a number of cassette tapes behind detailing the final weeks of his life, notably a woman he's obsessed with named Barbara and a man he calls the Laughing Cavalier. Will the Sergeant follow the same road to madness as Staniland in his quest to find the truth?
He Died With His Eyes Open kicks off a series of gritty Margaret Thatcher-era London mysteries and introduces their central character, the nameless Sergeant. The Factory, which lends it's name to the series, is concrete industrial building where the Department of Unexplained Deaths has its headquarters.
He Died With His Eyes Open is a bleak tale of hopelessness and obsession. If Jim Thompson tried his hand at writing The Big Sleep, it might wind up looking something like this. It's so bleak it reminded me of Hennig Mankell's Kurt Wallander series.
The central character, The Sergeant, is the last good cop in a corrupt system, spurning publicity and promotion in favor of getting the job done, seeing lesser cops move up the ladder time and time again. Once Charles Staniland's case is dropped in his lap, he refuses to let it go, walking the same dark roads as Charles as he pieces things together.
Raymond's London is a dirty place full of povery and desperation and the characters are products of the setting. Barbara, Harvey, The Knack, and most of the others all carry the weight of possible poverty on their backs. Bowman, the Sergeant's superior, is an ambitious younger cop that doesn't understand the Sergeant in the slightest.
As the Sergeant delved deeper into Staniland's final days, things started spiraling out of control. The ending was one for the ages.
Four out of five stars. I can't wait to read more of Derek Raymond's Factory series.
He Died With His Eyes Open kicks off a series of gritty Margaret Thatcher-era London mysteries and introduces their central character, the nameless Sergeant. The Factory, which lends it's name to the series, is concrete industrial building where the Department of Unexplained Deaths has its headquarters.
He Died With His Eyes Open is a bleak tale of hopelessness and obsession. If Jim Thompson tried his hand at writing The Big Sleep, it might wind up looking something like this. It's so bleak it reminded me of Hennig Mankell's Kurt Wallander series.
The central character, The Sergeant, is the last good cop in a corrupt system, spurning publicity and promotion in favor of getting the job done, seeing lesser cops move up the ladder time and time again. Once Charles Staniland's case is dropped in his lap, he refuses to let it go, walking the same dark roads as Charles as he pieces things together.
Raymond's London is a dirty place full of povery and desperation and the characters are products of the setting. Barbara, Harvey, The Knack, and most of the others all carry the weight of possible poverty on their backs. Bowman, the Sergeant's superior, is an ambitious younger cop that doesn't understand the Sergeant in the slightest.
As the Sergeant delved deeper into Staniland's final days, things started spiraling out of control. The ending was one for the ages.
Four out of five stars. I can't wait to read more of Derek Raymond's Factory series.
September 4, 2019
Most people live with their eyes shut, but I mean to die with mine open.
The corpse had been viciously beaten. His death barely even made the papers.
Enter a nameless Detective Sergeant of the Department of Unexplained Deaths.
We work on obscure, unimportant, apparently irrelevant deaths of people who don't matter and who never did.
With only some cassette tapes and scribbled messages left by the victim, the DS sets out to find a killer. Through interviews with possible suspects, he slowly begins to piece together who might have done it and why. Action fans may sneer at this book. There are no car chases, no shootouts. There is also no DNA, and no computers - just good, old fashioned detective work. In the end, an imperfect hero manages to make the dead man matter.
The corpse had been viciously beaten. His death barely even made the papers.
Enter a nameless Detective Sergeant of the Department of Unexplained Deaths.
We work on obscure, unimportant, apparently irrelevant deaths of people who don't matter and who never did.
With only some cassette tapes and scribbled messages left by the victim, the DS sets out to find a killer. Through interviews with possible suspects, he slowly begins to piece together who might have done it and why. Action fans may sneer at this book. There are no car chases, no shootouts. There is also no DNA, and no computers - just good, old fashioned detective work. In the end, an imperfect hero manages to make the dead man matter.
September 9, 2014
I was going to write a review for this but after reading it and watching True Detective I’m convinced that all of existence is meaningless anyhow so why bother?
*sigh* Fine. I guess it’ll fill some of the cold empty useless minutes spent walking around this pitiful ball of mud until I’m finally snuffed out forever….
As you might guess, this is not a feel good story.
Set in London during the mid-80s, a murder is investigated by an unnamed police sergeant from the Department of Unexplained Deaths. The victim was a nobody named Charles Staniland who was found brutally beaten to death. Staniland was just a middle-aged drunk with a writing career that went nowhere. However, he left behind a bunch of cassette tapes as an audio diary. As the sergeant listens to the Staniland’s reflections on life and his personal history, he begins to feel a kinship with the dead man as he makes pronouncements like this:
Every day you amass knowledge in a frantic race against death that death must win. You want to find out everything in the time you have; yet in the end you’ll wonder why you bothered, it’ll all be lost. I keep trying to explain this to anyone who will listen.
How would you like to take a long car ride with this guy?
The sergeant is surrounded by apathy and crime, and he has almost as much disdain for his fellow police officers and the civilians he deals with as he does for criminals. His investigation consists of obsessively listening to Staniland’s tapes and leaning on the people in his life to get answers. No one else may give a damn who killed Staniland, but the sergeant is determined to make someone pay for the crime.
If you’re looking for a tightly plotted whodunit police procedural, then just keep on walking because this ain't for you. There’s very little of the kind of methods you’d find on CSI or Law & Order, and frankly it’s pretty unrealistic. (I'm giving up the end of the book here to discuss those points so don't click unless you've already read or just don't care.)
But realism isn’t the point. This is about a cop who sees reflections of himself in a victim who refused to compromise himself for a world that he could barely stand to be a part of.
*sigh* Fine. I guess it’ll fill some of the cold empty useless minutes spent walking around this pitiful ball of mud until I’m finally snuffed out forever….
As you might guess, this is not a feel good story.
Set in London during the mid-80s, a murder is investigated by an unnamed police sergeant from the Department of Unexplained Deaths. The victim was a nobody named Charles Staniland who was found brutally beaten to death. Staniland was just a middle-aged drunk with a writing career that went nowhere. However, he left behind a bunch of cassette tapes as an audio diary. As the sergeant listens to the Staniland’s reflections on life and his personal history, he begins to feel a kinship with the dead man as he makes pronouncements like this:
Every day you amass knowledge in a frantic race against death that death must win. You want to find out everything in the time you have; yet in the end you’ll wonder why you bothered, it’ll all be lost. I keep trying to explain this to anyone who will listen.
How would you like to take a long car ride with this guy?
The sergeant is surrounded by apathy and crime, and he has almost as much disdain for his fellow police officers and the civilians he deals with as he does for criminals. His investigation consists of obsessively listening to Staniland’s tapes and leaning on the people in his life to get answers. No one else may give a damn who killed Staniland, but the sergeant is determined to make someone pay for the crime.
If you’re looking for a tightly plotted whodunit police procedural, then just keep on walking because this ain't for you. There’s very little of the kind of methods you’d find on CSI or Law & Order, and frankly it’s pretty unrealistic. (I'm giving up the end of the book here to discuss those points so don't click unless you've already read or just don't care.)
But realism isn’t the point. This is about a cop who sees reflections of himself in a victim who refused to compromise himself for a world that he could barely stand to be a part of.
May 4, 2015
“Every day you amass knowledge in a frantic race against death that death must win. You want to find out everything in the time you have; yet in the end you wonder why you bothered, it'll all be lost. I keep trying to explain this to anyone who will listen.”
Robert Cook as Derek Raymond
This is the first book of four in the Factory series of detective novels with the nameless Sergeant of the Department of Unexplained Deaths as the protagonist. This department, not a popular department, but a department that is available for the unsavory cases; the nonglamorous cases; the cases that could be a minefield for an upward bound career. The battered body of Charles Locksley Alwin Staniland represents just such a case. It is not unusual to find a 51 year old alcoholic dead, but to find one bludgeoned, tortured, with bones broken before the final shattering hammer blow to the skull is unusual. Even more suspicious to find him alongside the roadway in a brazen, all be it, stupid attempt to convince the police he was the victim of a hit and run.
The French movie based on the book
When the nameless Sergeant arrives at Staniland’s apartment he is not surprised to find it to be spartan, anything of monetary value long since having been sold or stolen, but there is something left that proves to be not only a break in the case, but also an audio legacy to the life of Charles Staniland. He was a writer by trade and as we see this case unfold we find out he was a damn good writer, but when he was too soused to write he would pick up the tape recorder and explain his life.
“I have taken a terrible beating from the truth and feel tamed, wise and desperate, as if I had taken a short route to wisdom through a mirror, and cut myself badly on it as I passed through.”
Listening to the tapes is like falling down a rabbit hole, the more he listens, the more he feels like he knows Staniland, and the more the case becomes personal. He could no more stop investigating this case than he could stop breathing. In the tapes, Staniland is obsessed with his poisonous relationship with a woman named Barbara/Babsie. He investigates other things, but he knows the “heart” of the case revolves around Staniland’s fixation on this woman.
”I realize I can’t satisfy Barbara in bed. I don’t believe anybody can. It’s a strange form of love, to be compelled to convert the woman you love into a human being. She hates my love, she says; it’s servile; she just wants to kick it to pieces.”
When the nameless detective finally meets Barbara he has already went through many stages of being repelled and attracted to her, as if he had already spent months in a relationship with her. Still once he meets her:
”I realized now what Staniland had been through with her. She was tall and blonde with good legs, an even better bottom and big tits, but not grotesque. It wasn’t just her face with the bright pointed teeth and the lazy eyelids; it was the flat disinterest with which she looked at men, as if she didn’t give a tinker’s damn either way.”
Charlotte Rampling plays Barbara in the French movie.
The nameless detective feels a kinship with Staniland. ”Where I identified with with Staniland, what I had inherited from him, was the question why.”
He was also friends with a sculptor, a man he deeply respected and would have loved to be more like. The artist part of his soul resonates with Staniland’s more philosophical musings.
”When he was broke he never came into the pub: ‘A true communist is no scrounger,’ he said. I had just decided to go to police school then, and I remember that when I told him so he looked at me for a time and remarked: ‘Yes, but perhaps you could have been an artist, too.’
I dared not tell him, though I told him most things, that I didn’t have the courage for that.”
Derek Raymond
Derek Raymond is not really Derek Raymond, but actually a man by the name of Robert William Arthur Cook and is credited with being the founder of the English Noir Novel. In a review published in The Observer, Jane McLoughlin compared the quality of its writing to that of Graham Greene, Eric Ambler, and Joseph Conrad. I got to say I expected to like this book as my GR friends Tfitoby and Mike Sullivan were reassuring with their excellent reviews, but I did not expect to find such depth in a hardboiled novel. There is gut wrenching angst expressed so vividly. Love/lust and all the tribulations that come from tragic, unnatural attractions to a human being that is incapable of reciprocating that love are explored in gritty detail. Will the nameless detective survive his immersion into the sordid life of Staniland or will he find himself another victim of the Jim Thompsonesque characters that populate this novel? You’ll have to read it and find out.
Robert Cook as Derek Raymond
This is the first book of four in the Factory series of detective novels with the nameless Sergeant of the Department of Unexplained Deaths as the protagonist. This department, not a popular department, but a department that is available for the unsavory cases; the nonglamorous cases; the cases that could be a minefield for an upward bound career. The battered body of Charles Locksley Alwin Staniland represents just such a case. It is not unusual to find a 51 year old alcoholic dead, but to find one bludgeoned, tortured, with bones broken before the final shattering hammer blow to the skull is unusual. Even more suspicious to find him alongside the roadway in a brazen, all be it, stupid attempt to convince the police he was the victim of a hit and run.
The French movie based on the book
When the nameless Sergeant arrives at Staniland’s apartment he is not surprised to find it to be spartan, anything of monetary value long since having been sold or stolen, but there is something left that proves to be not only a break in the case, but also an audio legacy to the life of Charles Staniland. He was a writer by trade and as we see this case unfold we find out he was a damn good writer, but when he was too soused to write he would pick up the tape recorder and explain his life.
“I have taken a terrible beating from the truth and feel tamed, wise and desperate, as if I had taken a short route to wisdom through a mirror, and cut myself badly on it as I passed through.”
Listening to the tapes is like falling down a rabbit hole, the more he listens, the more he feels like he knows Staniland, and the more the case becomes personal. He could no more stop investigating this case than he could stop breathing. In the tapes, Staniland is obsessed with his poisonous relationship with a woman named Barbara/Babsie. He investigates other things, but he knows the “heart” of the case revolves around Staniland’s fixation on this woman.
”I realize I can’t satisfy Barbara in bed. I don’t believe anybody can. It’s a strange form of love, to be compelled to convert the woman you love into a human being. She hates my love, she says; it’s servile; she just wants to kick it to pieces.”
When the nameless detective finally meets Barbara he has already went through many stages of being repelled and attracted to her, as if he had already spent months in a relationship with her. Still once he meets her:
”I realized now what Staniland had been through with her. She was tall and blonde with good legs, an even better bottom and big tits, but not grotesque. It wasn’t just her face with the bright pointed teeth and the lazy eyelids; it was the flat disinterest with which she looked at men, as if she didn’t give a tinker’s damn either way.”
Charlotte Rampling plays Barbara in the French movie.
The nameless detective feels a kinship with Staniland. ”Where I identified with with Staniland, what I had inherited from him, was the question why.”
What shall we be,
When we aren’t what we are?
He was also friends with a sculptor, a man he deeply respected and would have loved to be more like. The artist part of his soul resonates with Staniland’s more philosophical musings.
”When he was broke he never came into the pub: ‘A true communist is no scrounger,’ he said. I had just decided to go to police school then, and I remember that when I told him so he looked at me for a time and remarked: ‘Yes, but perhaps you could have been an artist, too.’
I dared not tell him, though I told him most things, that I didn’t have the courage for that.”
Derek Raymond
Derek Raymond is not really Derek Raymond, but actually a man by the name of Robert William Arthur Cook and is credited with being the founder of the English Noir Novel. In a review published in The Observer, Jane McLoughlin compared the quality of its writing to that of Graham Greene, Eric Ambler, and Joseph Conrad. I got to say I expected to like this book as my GR friends Tfitoby and Mike Sullivan were reassuring with their excellent reviews, but I did not expect to find such depth in a hardboiled novel. There is gut wrenching angst expressed so vividly. Love/lust and all the tribulations that come from tragic, unnatural attractions to a human being that is incapable of reciprocating that love are explored in gritty detail. Will the nameless detective survive his immersion into the sordid life of Staniland or will he find himself another victim of the Jim Thompsonesque characters that populate this novel? You’ll have to read it and find out.
April 13, 2024
I was really starving for a hardboiled crime thriller and decided on this one.
Second or maybe the third time I've read it but it still has the impact of a run-away lumber truck barreling through an intersection and broadsiding the reader.
Heart-wrenching splatter poetry.
When I had finished I stepped back with a last glance at his face. They had left some of it, I will say, whoever they were. It wasn't a strong face, but one that had seen everything and then not understood it until it was too late... His wounds were multiple, but not random. They weren't consistent with a hit-and-run or even a casual robbery... No, he had been systematically beaten by one, or more likely two practitioners who knew exactly how to do it. Specialists, you might say. Villains, you might say.
(page 2)
Anyone who conceives of writing as an agreeable stroll towards a middle-class life-style will never write anything but crap.
(page 154)
What better surgeon than a maggot?
What greater passion than a heart in formaldehyde?
Ash drops from the morgue assistant's cigarette into the dead mouth; they will have taken forensic X-rays of the smashed bones before putting him back into the fridge with a bang; there he will wait until the order for burial from the coroner arrives.
(pages 174-175)
So I walked down into Piccadilly, but remember nothing except a pretty little girl with murderer's ears who was standing waiting for a 19 bus with a woman I supposed must be her mother -anyway, she had legs like crumpled car bumpers and wore a brightly poisoned hat.
(page 184)
What I suffer isn't self-pity; it is my coming up against the absolute. The ordeal the writer sets himself is to track down existence and then, both stripped naked, fight it out. Everyone experiences this in the end, somehow or other.
(page 186)
Many of the above quotations come from diaries the murder victim maintained. We read these passages as the nameless Detective Sergeant from London Metropolitan Police’s Department of Unexplained Deaths reads them. Our outrage and compassion and grief are his.
Crime writing rarely -if ever- reaches such literary heights.
from page 167:
I’m trying to write again now on a tape recorder. I’ve left it very late, but I know I can do it, and I’ve got such strange things to tell.
I want what I write to be like a buoy that marks a rock; I don’t want anyone else wrecked on it.
Poetry - devastating poetry that could shatter the soul.
Second or maybe the third time I've read it but it still has the impact of a run-away lumber truck barreling through an intersection and broadsiding the reader.
Heart-wrenching splatter poetry.
When I had finished I stepped back with a last glance at his face. They had left some of it, I will say, whoever they were. It wasn't a strong face, but one that had seen everything and then not understood it until it was too late... His wounds were multiple, but not random. They weren't consistent with a hit-and-run or even a casual robbery... No, he had been systematically beaten by one, or more likely two practitioners who knew exactly how to do it. Specialists, you might say. Villains, you might say.
(page 2)
Anyone who conceives of writing as an agreeable stroll towards a middle-class life-style will never write anything but crap.
(page 154)
What better surgeon than a maggot?
What greater passion than a heart in formaldehyde?
Ash drops from the morgue assistant's cigarette into the dead mouth; they will have taken forensic X-rays of the smashed bones before putting him back into the fridge with a bang; there he will wait until the order for burial from the coroner arrives.
(pages 174-175)
So I walked down into Piccadilly, but remember nothing except a pretty little girl with murderer's ears who was standing waiting for a 19 bus with a woman I supposed must be her mother -anyway, she had legs like crumpled car bumpers and wore a brightly poisoned hat.
(page 184)
What I suffer isn't self-pity; it is my coming up against the absolute. The ordeal the writer sets himself is to track down existence and then, both stripped naked, fight it out. Everyone experiences this in the end, somehow or other.
(page 186)
Many of the above quotations come from diaries the murder victim maintained. We read these passages as the nameless Detective Sergeant from London Metropolitan Police’s Department of Unexplained Deaths reads them. Our outrage and compassion and grief are his.
Crime writing rarely -if ever- reaches such literary heights.
from page 167:
I’m trying to write again now on a tape recorder. I’ve left it very late, but I know I can do it, and I’ve got such strange things to tell.
I want what I write to be like a buoy that marks a rock; I don’t want anyone else wrecked on it.
Poetry - devastating poetry that could shatter the soul.
July 18, 2018
It’s a strange thing to finish a book one didn’t enjoy very much (those tape transcripts — for the love of God make them stop!) and at the same time see so much talent and promise that the thought of reading a second book by the same author brings happiness. But there it is.
March 12, 2023
Χωρίς πολλά λόγια :συγκλονιστικό!
Με περισσότερα λόγια: δεν ξέρω αν ο συγγραφέας είναι ο νονός, ο πατέρας, ο ξάδερφος ή ο μπατζανάκης του brit noir, ξέρω ότι με έναν ανώνυμο αστυνομικό, έναν νεκρό συγγραφέα κι ένα κουτί κασέτες, έστησε ενα στυγνό κοινωνικό παύλα αστυνομικό αριστούργημα, από αυτά που οι λάτρεις του είδους κάνουμε τάμα να πιάσουμε στα χέρια μας ή θυσιάζουμε μόσχους σιτευτούς στον μεγάλο Μανιτού.
Σημείωση :για να είμαστε δίκαιοι, θα το απολαύσουν καλύτερα αναγνώστες λίγο μεγαλύτερης ηλικίας ή όσοι έχουν εικόνα της Αγγλίας επί Θάτσερ από άλλες πηγές, μιας και πολλά πολιτικοκοινωνικά θέματα βρίσκονται πίσω από τις γραμμές.
Τέλος,το επίμετρο της Χιλντας Παπαδημητρίου είναι άκρως κατατοπιστικό κι ενδιαφέρον.
5/5 ⭐
Με περισσότερα λόγια: δεν ξέρω αν ο συγγραφέας είναι ο νονός, ο πατέρας, ο ξάδερφος ή ο μπατζανάκης του brit noir, ξέρω ότι με έναν ανώνυμο αστυνομικό, έναν νεκρό συγγραφέα κι ένα κουτί κασέτες, έστησε ενα στυγνό κοινωνικό παύλα αστυνομικό αριστούργημα, από αυτά που οι λάτρεις του είδους κάνουμε τάμα να πιάσουμε στα χέρια μας ή θυσιάζουμε μόσχους σιτευτούς στον μεγάλο Μανιτού.
Σημείωση :για να είμαστε δίκαιοι, θα το απολαύσουν καλύτερα αναγνώστες λίγο μεγαλύτερης ηλικίας ή όσοι έχουν εικόνα της Αγγλίας επί Θάτσερ από άλλες πηγές, μιας και πολλά πολιτικοκοινωνικά θέματα βρίσκονται πίσω από τις γραμμές.
Τέλος,το επίμετρο της Χιλντας Παπαδημητρίου είναι άκρως κατατοπιστικό κι ενδιαφέρον.
5/5 ⭐
September 16, 2012
He Died With His Eyes Open by Derek Raymond
My rating: 5 of 5 stars
I had a feeling about this one, I desperately wanted (needed?) to read the book from the second I heard about it, yet when I finally bought a copy I allowed it to sit on my shelf for at least two months. I'm glad I did, it's an incredible piece of noir writing and to have devoured it instantly would've have been a massive disservice to Derek Raymond.
Part way through I was reminded of Ross Macdonald's famous quote about Raymond Chandler, how "he was a slumming angel" and that term really feels like an apt description for the victim in this novel, the protagonist of this novel and the writer of this novel.
Raymond dropped out of the famous Eton public school and followed a career path that resembled Charles Bukowski more than any number of sub-royal upper class Brits that he might have considered his peers. He moved to France and lived on the margins of society in both England and France and it is this dual experience and knowledge that imbues the two main characters with such insight and purpose.
Our nameless hero taking a journey in to the downward spiralling life of Charlie Staniland via his words - written and spoken on to casettes - and then literally in to the life he had chosen to lead as he comes face to face with the filth, cretins, lowlifes (and also the decent hardworking people who had fallen through the cracks of Thatchers Britain.) It's a journey that almost goes beyond noir, it's black, it's bleak and it's truly powerful stuff. As the Evening Standard is quoted on the cover of this version, Raymond is "unafraid to face the reality of man's evil" and it is this fearlessness that puts the novel in to the literary category of crime writing, takes it that step further in to greatness.
The lead character is from the old school pulp noir territory, down these dark oppressive roads a man must walk, not because he chooses to but because he must type stuff. A loner because he chooses to be, taking chances with his life to ensure justice for those who otherwise wouldn't receive it yet with a worldview that never quite reaches the depths of despair no matter what the situation.
Having grown up in England I may have a greater appreciation for some of this stuff than those who didn't, there are aspects that are very much part of "Little England" that may not be so easily understood by others but that aside this is still a fabulous piece of work that should be appreciated by all of us with a penchant for the darkest of noirs and who enjoy taking a journey in to the depths of human depravity with a hardboiled hero at our side.
For me this is David Goodis (at his very best) territory but with a British slant on it, take this wonderful piece of description for example: "both armies were attended by secretaries who wittered blondely away at each other across tepid gin and tonics," the cynical worldview we expect from a Marlowe or a Spade delivered with an accurate dig at the very British way of serving alcohol.
A remarkable work from a very talented man, it makes you care for somebody whose name you never hear mentioned, his clear affection towards the drunken mess of a man at the centre of the mystery is evident and if you don't care for Charlie Staniland or his life you will at least care that there is somebody out there desperate to bring his killers to justice.
“I have taken a terrible beating from the truth and feel tamed, wise and desperate, as if I had taken a short route to wisdom through a mirror, and cut myself badly on it as I passed through.”
For those of you who look forward to movie adaptations there was a French movie in 1985 called On ne meurt que deux fois starring Charlotte Rampling which I am yet to see and a quick look on imdb suggests that a new TV series is in the works based on the five book sequence, so something to look forward to.
Further viewing suggestions:
This Is England I.D. Meantime
Further reading suggestions:
The Red Riding Quartet by David Peace
Originally posted at blahblahblahgay
April 22, 2023
Derek Raymond (aka Robert Cook) has a biography almost as fascinating as his novels. He smuggled oil paintings, got thrown in Spanish prison for badmouthing Franco, drove fast cars, lived with the beat poets in the fifties, was interrogated by Dutch police, and then wrote British noir.
Raymond published five novels in his nameless detective Factory series and these excellent novels are unique in their format and tone. The narrator is a British detective who works unsolved cases, cases no one in the Department of Unexplained Deaths could give a lesser damn about. He spends an enormous amount of time in these cases, delving into the victim's character and lives, trying to understand what happened.
A man is found on the side of the road, beaten with a hammer, stabbed with a knife, and made to suffer a long slow death. Who was he and who hated him so much? Our detective listens to a series of cassette tapes left by the victim in the form of a diary and tries to understand who this man was and who had it in for him. As it says in this diary, "Anyone who conceives of writing as an agreeable stroll toward middle-class lifestyle will never write anything but crap." On the way, he brings Britain of the early eighties alive with punks, mods and rockers, junkies, people living as squatters and on the dole.
There may not be the kind of action here present in most detective novels, but it is a smooth, talented read that is worth reading far more than once. This detective is rude, sarcastic, overbearing and altogether one of the most unique characters ever.
Raymond published five novels in his nameless detective Factory series and these excellent novels are unique in their format and tone. The narrator is a British detective who works unsolved cases, cases no one in the Department of Unexplained Deaths could give a lesser damn about. He spends an enormous amount of time in these cases, delving into the victim's character and lives, trying to understand what happened.
A man is found on the side of the road, beaten with a hammer, stabbed with a knife, and made to suffer a long slow death. Who was he and who hated him so much? Our detective listens to a series of cassette tapes left by the victim in the form of a diary and tries to understand who this man was and who had it in for him. As it says in this diary, "Anyone who conceives of writing as an agreeable stroll toward middle-class lifestyle will never write anything but crap." On the way, he brings Britain of the early eighties alive with punks, mods and rockers, junkies, people living as squatters and on the dole.
There may not be the kind of action here present in most detective novels, but it is a smooth, talented read that is worth reading far more than once. This detective is rude, sarcastic, overbearing and altogether one of the most unique characters ever.
July 22, 2022
Βαθμολογία: 9/10
Ω, Θεοί, τι μαυρίλα ήταν αυτή! Γιατί έπρεπε να περιμένω τόσα χρόνια μέχρι να μεταφραστεί αυτό το καταπληκτικό βρετανικό νουάρ, που μου μαύρισε την ψυχή καλοκαιριάτικα; Που λέτε, το "Πέθανε με τα μάτια ανοιχτά" ήταν ένα από τα πολλά μυθιστορήματα Βρετανών και Αμερικάνων συγγραφέων που έχω σε μια λίστα με αμετάφραστα βιβλία που θα ήθελα να δω κάποτε στα ελληνικά, και να που οι εκδόσεις Έρμα έκαναν την ευχάριστη έκπληξη! Λόγω της φήμης του και των διαφόρων κριτικών αριστερά και δεξιά από αναγνώστες που έχουν παρόμοια γούστα με τα δικά μου, είχα υψηλές προσδοκίες από το βιβλίο, και από την πρώτη κιόλας σελίδα κατάλαβα ότι θα διάβαζα κάτι δυνατό, έντονο και αν μη τι άλλο φοβερά καλογραμμένο. Σίγουρα το βιβλίο δεν είναι για όλα τα γούστα, δεν είναι γι' αυτούς που απολαμβάνουν κλασικές ιστορίες μυστηρίου κλπ κλπ, θα έλεγα ότι είναι γι' αυτούς που θέλουν μια σκοτεινή ιστορία εγκλήματος, που αναδεικνύει με έμμεσο αλλά και άμεσο τρόπο τη σαπίλα, τη διαφθορά και την εξαχρείωση της κοινωνίας μας (εδώ μιλάμε για το Λονδίνο της δεκαετίας του '80, επί κυβέρνησης Μάργκαρετ Θάτσερ - καταλάβατε!). Η γραφή είναι σκληρή, έντονη και τίγκα στον κυνισμό, μπορώ να πω ότι μου δημιούργησε μια αίσθηση ανησυχίας, σαν το Κακό να καραδοκεί κάπου εκεί πίσω, η αλήθεια είναι ότι με καθήλωσε και με έκανε να βλέπω τη σκοτεινή και αρρωστημένη πλευρά της πραγματικότητας, ενώ επίσης διέκρινα και κάποιες υπαρξιακές ανησυχίες στα κομμάτια που ο ανώνυμος αστυνομικός και αφηγητής της ιστορίας ακούει τις κασέτες του αποτυχημένου, αλκοολικού και μάλλον καταθλιπτικού συγγραφέα που ξυλοκοπήθηκε μέχρι θανάτου. Επίσης μέσα στο βιβλίο υπάρχουν κάποιοι από τους καλύτερους διαλόγους που έχω διαβάσει ποτέ μου σε νουάρ μυθιστόρημα, οι περισσότεροι για μένα ήταν πραγματική απόλαυση. Τέλος, η ατμόσφαιρα είναι σαφώς καταπληκτική, υποβλητική και πιο-νουάρ-πεθαίνεις. Γενικά, ένα νουάρ που ήθελα πολύ να διαβάσω και που πραγματικά με εντυπωσίασε με το στιλ και το ύφος του. Υ.Γ. Άψογη η ελληνική έκδοση, με πολύ γλαφυρή και προσεγμένη μετάφραση, καθώς και με ένα χρήσιμο και ενδιαφέρον επίμετρο.
Ω, Θεοί, τι μαυρίλα ήταν αυτή! Γιατί έπρεπε να περιμένω τόσα χρόνια μέχρι να μεταφραστεί αυτό το καταπληκτικό βρετανικό νουάρ, που μου μαύρισε την ψυχή καλοκαιριάτικα; Που λέτε, το "Πέθανε με τα μάτια ανοιχτά" ήταν ένα από τα πολλά μυθιστορήματα Βρετανών και Αμερικάνων συγγραφέων που έχω σε μια λίστα με αμετάφραστα βιβλία που θα ήθελα να δω κάποτε στα ελληνικά, και να που οι εκδόσεις Έρμα έκαναν την ευχάριστη έκπληξη! Λόγω της φήμης του και των διαφόρων κριτικών αριστερά και δεξιά από αναγνώστες που έχουν παρόμοια γούστα με τα δικά μου, είχα υψηλές προσδοκίες από το βιβλίο, και από την πρώτη κιόλας σελίδα κατάλαβα ότι θα διάβαζα κάτι δυνατό, έντονο και αν μη τι άλλο φοβερά καλογραμμένο. Σίγουρα το βιβλίο δεν είναι για όλα τα γούστα, δεν είναι γι' αυτούς που απολαμβάνουν κλασικές ιστορίες μυστηρίου κλπ κλπ, θα έλεγα ότι είναι γι' αυτούς που θέλουν μια σκοτεινή ιστορία εγκλήματος, που αναδεικνύει με έμμεσο αλλά και άμεσο τρόπο τη σαπίλα, τη διαφθορά και την εξαχρείωση της κοινωνίας μας (εδώ μιλάμε για το Λονδίνο της δεκαετίας του '80, επί κυβέρνησης Μάργκαρετ Θάτσερ - καταλάβατε!). Η γραφή είναι σκληρή, έντονη και τίγκα στον κυνισμό, μπορώ να πω ότι μου δημιούργησε μια αίσθηση ανησυχίας, σαν το Κακό να καραδοκεί κάπου εκεί πίσω, η αλήθεια είναι ότι με καθήλωσε και με έκανε να βλέπω τη σκοτεινή και αρρωστημένη πλευρά της πραγματικότητας, ενώ επίσης διέκρινα και κάποιες υπαρξιακές ανησυχίες στα κομμάτια που ο ανώνυμος αστυνομικός και αφηγητής της ιστορίας ακούει τις κασέτες του αποτυχημένου, αλκοολικού και μάλλον καταθλιπτικού συγγραφέα που ξυλοκοπήθηκε μέχρι θανάτου. Επίσης μέσα στο βιβλίο υπάρχουν κάποιοι από τους καλύτερους διαλόγους που έχω διαβάσει ποτέ μου σε νουάρ μυθιστόρημα, οι περισσότεροι για μένα ήταν πραγματική απόλαυση. Τέλος, η ατμόσφαιρα είναι σαφώς καταπληκτική, υποβλητική και πιο-νουάρ-πεθαίνεις. Γενικά, ένα νουάρ που ήθελα πολύ να διαβάσω και που πραγματικά με εντυπωσίασε με το στιλ και το ύφος του. Υ.Γ. Άψογη η ελληνική έκδοση, με πολύ γλαφυρή και προσεγμένη μετάφραση, καθώς και με ένα χρήσιμο και ενδιαφέρον επίμετρο.
August 5, 2024
This one has been sitting impatiently on my shelf for over three years. Lightning struck a nearby transformer and zapped out the power a few days ago... leaving me with the option of reading the old fashion way... from an unplugged book. I remember hearing that Irish noir writer Ken Bruen had great things to say about Derek Raymond and I finally got to it.
This is a dark, dark book. A man has been brutally murdered in London, circa 1985. The characters are unsavory at best and the locations are the worst places you can imagine. The victim was a nobody, an alcoholic with no money and very few people who will miss him. He was a frustrated writer who only left behind a stack of cassettes, recordings of his life and what he was going through.
One person who gets involved is the Detective Sergeant assigned to the case. He is a member of the Department of Unexplained Deaths... the very lowest priority cases. He is ridiculed for putting any effort into this investigation, but he seems to share Michael Connelly's Harry Bosche credo... "Everybody counts or nobody counts." As the detective listens to the tapes, he is pulled in closer to the victim and the people in his life.
"He Died With His Eyes Open" is the first installment of Derek Raymond's five Factory books. It is gritty and not for the squeamish. It is also a very good look into the evil that people are capable of.
This is a dark, dark book. A man has been brutally murdered in London, circa 1985. The characters are unsavory at best and the locations are the worst places you can imagine. The victim was a nobody, an alcoholic with no money and very few people who will miss him. He was a frustrated writer who only left behind a stack of cassettes, recordings of his life and what he was going through.
One person who gets involved is the Detective Sergeant assigned to the case. He is a member of the Department of Unexplained Deaths... the very lowest priority cases. He is ridiculed for putting any effort into this investigation, but he seems to share Michael Connelly's Harry Bosche credo... "Everybody counts or nobody counts." As the detective listens to the tapes, he is pulled in closer to the victim and the people in his life.
"He Died With His Eyes Open" is the first installment of Derek Raymond's five Factory books. It is gritty and not for the squeamish. It is also a very good look into the evil that people are capable of.
November 23, 2012
He Died with His Eyes Open: Derek Raymond's Novel of Who Speaks for the Dead who Don't Matter
From the Reviewer
First Edition, Abacus Press, 1984
Derek Raymond was the pen name of English writer Robin Cook, 1931-1994. When he began writing the Factory novels in 1984, he took the pen name to avoid confusion with the American author Robin Cook, known for his medical mystery thrillers. However, it remained a confusing matter because the European releases maintained the name "Robin Cook."
Robin Cook, AKA Derek Raymond
However, were you to pick up a European "Robin Cook" you would quickly realize that you had entered a different world. The only thing sterile in a Derek Raymond novel is the medical examiner's office. Consider this the creation of the English Noir Novel. Raymond's work depicts the down and out, the unwanted, and the unloved. The killers are brutal. The Sergeant of Raymond's "Factory" novels is capable of equal viciousness, though he does not readily appear to possess that characteristic.
The ends of Justice require the means to which Raymond's protagonist resorts. As we follow the Sergeant through his investigation, the question is whether it is a duty to enforce the law or has the Sergeant become an avenger of the dead. Raymond pushes our face into a rough version of John Donne's Meditation that, indeed, no man is an island, but a piece of the continent, and that any man's death is bound to be recognized by society, no matter his standing in it.
This is the first of five "Factory" novels. He Died With His Eyes Open was filmed as "On ne meurt que 2 fois" by Jaques Deray in 1985.
Oh, my...Charlotte Rampling, as Barbara
Meet the unnamed Sergeant of Division A14 of the Metropolitan London Police Department, better known as the Department of Unexplained Deaths. Well, it's a rather dead end position in law enforcement, don't you see? These unexplained deaths are of those people that don't matter. Their absence makes only the slightest ripple on the surface of life to justify their existence. You get tucked into A14, you'll not ever leave there above the rank of Sergeant. Nor will you be on the telly. And it's highly unlikely to find your case or your name in the papers.
A NOTE FROM THE SERGEANT
Don't you see, mate? It's quite simple. There's two kinds of dead people. Them that mattered and them that didn't. Now for those that mattered, you have the Serious Crimes Division. Now, there's the road to reputation and recognition, solving how a stiff that mattered got shuffled off his mortal coil. And you can be guaranteed that you solve those tough ones that's where you'll find your sodding promotions and your face on the telly and in the papers.
But sometimes, just sometimes, mind you, you find out there was a brain in that body that had some of the same feelings and thoughts you yourself had. You recognize him, you know? And this time it's all the easier to come to know Charles Stanisland. He was a writer. And when he wasn't writing he was recording his thoughts on life, love, the very nature of existence and whether there was any point to it at all. You listen and listen and listen, and it's almost as if you can become the man.
You know, if Charles Stanisland had got himself topped before he sold his inheritance to his younger brother Grumpian for pence on the pound, he would have been considered a serious crime. And there would be my fine colleague Inspector Bowman moving sharply up the ranks handling his case.
But there you have a fellow, down on his luck, in the bottle, in the rack with a woman, Barbara, who cannot or will not feel love and he keeps on and on trying to win something she can never give him. And there you have Charles Stanisland dumped dead, beaten to a pulp, and sliced with a blade. It took more than one to do for Charles Stanisland.
I really don't give a damn if I ever leave A14. It's a job, you know? A duty. To explain a death and wave the bloody facts in the face of the world whether it gives a fuck or not. You want to know my name? What for? You just call me Sergeant. That's what I do. You may not find my methods pretty or proper or conduct becoming. Come to think of it, I just may scare the Hell out of you as much as the ones that topped Stanisland.
THE REVIEWER WRAPS UP
Reading Raymond is akin to watching a Sam Peckinpaugh film completely in slow motion with every detail of violence flowing around the viewer to the extent the moviegoer checks his clothes for blood spatter evidence. There is a terrible beauty in the writing of Derek Raymond from which it is impossible to pull yourself away.
My thanks to the goodreads group Pulp Fiction for yet another stunning read.
From the Reviewer
First Edition, Abacus Press, 1984
Derek Raymond was the pen name of English writer Robin Cook, 1931-1994. When he began writing the Factory novels in 1984, he took the pen name to avoid confusion with the American author Robin Cook, known for his medical mystery thrillers. However, it remained a confusing matter because the European releases maintained the name "Robin Cook."
Robin Cook, AKA Derek Raymond
However, were you to pick up a European "Robin Cook" you would quickly realize that you had entered a different world. The only thing sterile in a Derek Raymond novel is the medical examiner's office. Consider this the creation of the English Noir Novel. Raymond's work depicts the down and out, the unwanted, and the unloved. The killers are brutal. The Sergeant of Raymond's "Factory" novels is capable of equal viciousness, though he does not readily appear to possess that characteristic.
The ends of Justice require the means to which Raymond's protagonist resorts. As we follow the Sergeant through his investigation, the question is whether it is a duty to enforce the law or has the Sergeant become an avenger of the dead. Raymond pushes our face into a rough version of John Donne's Meditation that, indeed, no man is an island, but a piece of the continent, and that any man's death is bound to be recognized by society, no matter his standing in it.
This is the first of five "Factory" novels. He Died With His Eyes Open was filmed as "On ne meurt que 2 fois" by Jaques Deray in 1985.
Oh, my...Charlotte Rampling, as Barbara
"Though Staniland had died at the age of fifty-one, he still had the innocence of a child of six. The naive courage, too--the desire to understand everything, whatever the cost.
This fragile sweetness at the core of people--if we allowed that to be kicked, smashed and splintered, then we had no society at all of the kind I felt I had to uphold. I had committed my own sins against it, out of transient weakness.
...I knew I had to nail the killers."
Meet the unnamed Sergeant of Division A14 of the Metropolitan London Police Department, better known as the Department of Unexplained Deaths. Well, it's a rather dead end position in law enforcement, don't you see? These unexplained deaths are of those people that don't matter. Their absence makes only the slightest ripple on the surface of life to justify their existence. You get tucked into A14, you'll not ever leave there above the rank of Sergeant. Nor will you be on the telly. And it's highly unlikely to find your case or your name in the papers.
A NOTE FROM THE SERGEANT
Don't you see, mate? It's quite simple. There's two kinds of dead people. Them that mattered and them that didn't. Now for those that mattered, you have the Serious Crimes Division. Now, there's the road to reputation and recognition, solving how a stiff that mattered got shuffled off his mortal coil. And you can be guaranteed that you solve those tough ones that's where you'll find your sodding promotions and your face on the telly and in the papers.
But sometimes, just sometimes, mind you, you find out there was a brain in that body that had some of the same feelings and thoughts you yourself had. You recognize him, you know? And this time it's all the easier to come to know Charles Stanisland. He was a writer. And when he wasn't writing he was recording his thoughts on life, love, the very nature of existence and whether there was any point to it at all. You listen and listen and listen, and it's almost as if you can become the man.
You know, if Charles Stanisland had got himself topped before he sold his inheritance to his younger brother Grumpian for pence on the pound, he would have been considered a serious crime. And there would be my fine colleague Inspector Bowman moving sharply up the ranks handling his case.
But there you have a fellow, down on his luck, in the bottle, in the rack with a woman, Barbara, who cannot or will not feel love and he keeps on and on trying to win something she can never give him. And there you have Charles Stanisland dumped dead, beaten to a pulp, and sliced with a blade. It took more than one to do for Charles Stanisland.
I really don't give a damn if I ever leave A14. It's a job, you know? A duty. To explain a death and wave the bloody facts in the face of the world whether it gives a fuck or not. You want to know my name? What for? You just call me Sergeant. That's what I do. You may not find my methods pretty or proper or conduct becoming. Come to think of it, I just may scare the Hell out of you as much as the ones that topped Stanisland.
THE REVIEWER WRAPS UP
Reading Raymond is akin to watching a Sam Peckinpaugh film completely in slow motion with every detail of violence flowing around the viewer to the extent the moviegoer checks his clothes for blood spatter evidence. There is a terrible beauty in the writing of Derek Raymond from which it is impossible to pull yourself away.
My thanks to the goodreads group Pulp Fiction for yet another stunning read.
January 10, 2020
He Died With His Eyes Open by Derek Raymond (1984)
My first novel by Derek Raymond (born Robin Cook 1931 / died in London 1994). The son of a textile magnate, he dropped out of Eton aged sixteen and was employed at various times as a pornographer, organiser of illegal gambling, money launderer, pig-slaughterer and minicab driver.
Much of this work experience is reflected in He Died With His Eyes Open, the first of the Factory novels, nominal police procedurals narrated by the unnamed protagonist, a sergeant at London's Metropolitan Police Department of Unexplained Deaths, also known as A14. A14 handles the lowlife murders, and which are in stark contrast to the headline-grabbing homicides handled by the prestigious Serious Crimes Division, better known as Scotland Yard.
He Died With His Eyes Open was a precursor to the work of David Peace and James Ellroy and, if that makes you sit up and take notice, then you should most certainly read this book. I am now resolved to read the other four Factory novels.
The tale takes place in the London of the mid 1980s, and the brutal killing of Charles Staniland - a middle-aged alcoholic failure - is handed to the sergeant at A14. The detection primarily involves the sergeant listening to cassette tapes made by the victim in which he describes his relationships and his personal reflections on his complex and dysfunctional world. This is not a standard crime novel, and - like the best genre fiction - Derek Raymond pushes the boundaries to create a bleak and surprising study of obsession and evil, that also evokes the matt black darkness of Thatcher's London.
Beautifully written and quietly profound, what more could could anyone want from a crime novel?
4/5
The five books in Derek Raymond's Factory series are...
1. He Died With His Eyes Open (1984)
2. The Devil's Home on Leave (1985)
3. How the Dead Live (1986)
4. I Was Dora Suarez (1990)
5. Dead Man Upright (1993)
Click here to read my review of "He Died With His Eyes Open" (Factory 1) (1976)
Click here to read my review of "The Devil's Home on Leave" (Factory 2) (1985)
Click here to read my review of "How the Dead Live" (Factory 3) (1986)
Click here to read my review of "I Was Dora Suarez" (Factory 4) (1990)
Click here to read my review of "Dead Man Upright" (Factory 5) (1990)
Click here to read a discussion thread about Derek Raymond
My first novel by Derek Raymond (born Robin Cook 1931 / died in London 1994). The son of a textile magnate, he dropped out of Eton aged sixteen and was employed at various times as a pornographer, organiser of illegal gambling, money launderer, pig-slaughterer and minicab driver.
Much of this work experience is reflected in He Died With His Eyes Open, the first of the Factory novels, nominal police procedurals narrated by the unnamed protagonist, a sergeant at London's Metropolitan Police Department of Unexplained Deaths, also known as A14. A14 handles the lowlife murders, and which are in stark contrast to the headline-grabbing homicides handled by the prestigious Serious Crimes Division, better known as Scotland Yard.
He Died With His Eyes Open was a precursor to the work of David Peace and James Ellroy and, if that makes you sit up and take notice, then you should most certainly read this book. I am now resolved to read the other four Factory novels.
The tale takes place in the London of the mid 1980s, and the brutal killing of Charles Staniland - a middle-aged alcoholic failure - is handed to the sergeant at A14. The detection primarily involves the sergeant listening to cassette tapes made by the victim in which he describes his relationships and his personal reflections on his complex and dysfunctional world. This is not a standard crime novel, and - like the best genre fiction - Derek Raymond pushes the boundaries to create a bleak and surprising study of obsession and evil, that also evokes the matt black darkness of Thatcher's London.
Beautifully written and quietly profound, what more could could anyone want from a crime novel?
4/5
The five books in Derek Raymond's Factory series are...
1. He Died With His Eyes Open (1984)
2. The Devil's Home on Leave (1985)
3. How the Dead Live (1986)
4. I Was Dora Suarez (1990)
5. Dead Man Upright (1993)
Click here to read my review of "He Died With His Eyes Open" (Factory 1) (1976)
Click here to read my review of "The Devil's Home on Leave" (Factory 2) (1985)
Click here to read my review of "How the Dead Live" (Factory 3) (1986)
Click here to read my review of "I Was Dora Suarez" (Factory 4) (1990)
Click here to read my review of "Dead Man Upright" (Factory 5) (1990)
Click here to read a discussion thread about Derek Raymond
May 22, 2018
http://www.crimesegments.com/2018/05/...
Holy crap. I'm just blown away.
As James Sallis says in his introduction to He Died With His Eyes Open,
"Five or six times in a life you come across a book that sends electric shocks skittering and scorching through the whole of you and radically alters the way in which you perceive the world." (vii)
After finishing the entire Factory series I can certainly attest to the "electric shocks skittering and scorching" that not only went through the whole of me, but also sort of imprinted themselves into my brain in their wake, probably to leave a mark forever as to how I approach and engage with crime writing. They are, as the back cover blurb from He Died With His Eyes Open notes (again quoting Sallis), "literature written from the edge of human experience," and they indeed seem to exceed the "limits of the crime novel and of literature itself." The fact that the main character is a detective working for the police in London might make anyone believe that Raymond's novels are yet just another series of police procedurals, but that is absolutely not the case and reading them as such is just plain folly. These books are among the darkest of the dark in the realm of crime fiction, and are not for everyone, and for those who do read them, beware the toll they take on your wellbeing for the duration.
I loved these books and there will never be anything like them again, I'm sure.
Holy crap. I'm just blown away.
As James Sallis says in his introduction to He Died With His Eyes Open,
"Five or six times in a life you come across a book that sends electric shocks skittering and scorching through the whole of you and radically alters the way in which you perceive the world." (vii)
After finishing the entire Factory series I can certainly attest to the "electric shocks skittering and scorching" that not only went through the whole of me, but also sort of imprinted themselves into my brain in their wake, probably to leave a mark forever as to how I approach and engage with crime writing. They are, as the back cover blurb from He Died With His Eyes Open notes (again quoting Sallis), "literature written from the edge of human experience," and they indeed seem to exceed the "limits of the crime novel and of literature itself." The fact that the main character is a detective working for the police in London might make anyone believe that Raymond's novels are yet just another series of police procedurals, but that is absolutely not the case and reading them as such is just plain folly. These books are among the darkest of the dark in the realm of crime fiction, and are not for everyone, and for those who do read them, beware the toll they take on your wellbeing for the duration.
I loved these books and there will never be anything like them again, I'm sure.
January 29, 2015
He Died With His Eyes Open is set in the 1980’s London, during the Thatcher years in government. It’s a look at the dingy side of London of the desperate and unemployed, drugs and prostitution. It’s where lower class murder rate is high but it’s crimes like this the authorities and politicians look at with contempt and would rather dismiss.
The protagonist in this book is just as intriguing and mysterious as the plot. He's an unnamed sergeant who works for the Factory; a low-income division of the police force that looks at solving unexplained deaths; deaths that involve the low-lifers that won't be acknowledged or reported. Members from Serious Crime think he’s a fool, wasting away in the job. He has the experience and ability to move up in the ranks - and streetwise intelligence, which is not knowledge to be taught - but he actually cares for these victims and wants to see justice done. His sensitivity can also be a curse. He doesn’t know how to distance himself from the victims and can get so emotionally involved, he crosses the line when it comes to police ethics.
In He Died With His Eyes Open the sergeant is called out to a site where they find a dead body of a derelict, completely smashed up to pieces to the point of being unrecognisable. They discovered the victim is Charles Staniland, fifty-one years old with a heavy drinking problem, but there’s more to Staniland then meets the eye. In Staniland apartment they found audiotapes and written diaries notes of what seem to be sort of confession or a plea for mercy. It’s about a man at breaking point; he talks of remorse, impotency, lust and self-worthlessness, and of a woman – his lover – who likes to play on his weakness for her own deceitful satisfaction. They are diaries that eventually consume the Sergeant dreams and waking hour, and feels the urge to be a part of the victim life.
Some exceptionally good literature I’ve read to date have come from Noir novels and this is up there with the best. Keep in mind the writing is moody and themes are richly dark and raw - in that, if you are feeling low or down they will bring you down further. It’s something I fully expected with a gritty noir novel and embraced. And lost myself in its beautiful phrases and the uncertainty of the plots direction. Really great novel.
The protagonist in this book is just as intriguing and mysterious as the plot. He's an unnamed sergeant who works for the Factory; a low-income division of the police force that looks at solving unexplained deaths; deaths that involve the low-lifers that won't be acknowledged or reported. Members from Serious Crime think he’s a fool, wasting away in the job. He has the experience and ability to move up in the ranks - and streetwise intelligence, which is not knowledge to be taught - but he actually cares for these victims and wants to see justice done. His sensitivity can also be a curse. He doesn’t know how to distance himself from the victims and can get so emotionally involved, he crosses the line when it comes to police ethics.
In He Died With His Eyes Open the sergeant is called out to a site where they find a dead body of a derelict, completely smashed up to pieces to the point of being unrecognisable. They discovered the victim is Charles Staniland, fifty-one years old with a heavy drinking problem, but there’s more to Staniland then meets the eye. In Staniland apartment they found audiotapes and written diaries notes of what seem to be sort of confession or a plea for mercy. It’s about a man at breaking point; he talks of remorse, impotency, lust and self-worthlessness, and of a woman – his lover – who likes to play on his weakness for her own deceitful satisfaction. They are diaries that eventually consume the Sergeant dreams and waking hour, and feels the urge to be a part of the victim life.
Some exceptionally good literature I’ve read to date have come from Noir novels and this is up there with the best. Keep in mind the writing is moody and themes are richly dark and raw - in that, if you are feeling low or down they will bring you down further. It’s something I fully expected with a gritty noir novel and embraced. And lost myself in its beautiful phrases and the uncertainty of the plots direction. Really great novel.
February 7, 2017
Cover of the 1993 Sphere mass-market paperback, not listed here (288 pages).
February 24, 2020
Dark, hard, and true.
October 15, 2024
He died with his eyes open is a detective crime book, it is the first book of Factory series. I don’t read many crime books, this is my first crime book read in English. It’s not a difficult read for me, not as I am used to read in very descriptive writing of secondary worlds and multiple POVs. It is a story which follows the formula of detective solving crimes. Mostly, the book is built up by dialogues and the replay of the cassettes. There has some British humors in the dialogues, it is sharp to some extent. The book tends to use the dialects of London to present story background. Sometimes I feel it is a bit jarring to read, I think because I am not familiar with the London dialects.
The story is central on the cassettes of the dead. The police detective Staniland was unraveled the mystery of the dead, and his investigation with the suspects. The story is old fashion detective style, no advance techniques assist the investigations, no witnesses for him to interrogate, Just himself operating the investigation. Actually it is better than I expected, the writing and the story has some charms to lure me into reading further of the story.
Personal Rating: 6 out of 10.
The story is central on the cassettes of the dead. The police detective Staniland was unraveled the mystery of the dead, and his investigation with the suspects. The story is old fashion detective style, no advance techniques assist the investigations, no witnesses for him to interrogate, Just himself operating the investigation. Actually it is better than I expected, the writing and the story has some charms to lure me into reading further of the story.
Personal Rating: 6 out of 10.
July 6, 2022
From 1984
The Detective Sergeant of the Department of Unexplained Death (in London) doesn't seem to have a name (shades of the Continental Op). Unlike the other police, he doesn't want to be promoted either. He just wants to solve the murder. And he really throws himself into finding the killer of a beaten up corpse.
The Detective Sergeant of the Department of Unexplained Death (in London) doesn't seem to have a name (shades of the Continental Op). Unlike the other police, he doesn't want to be promoted either. He just wants to solve the murder. And he really throws himself into finding the killer of a beaten up corpse.
August 1, 2016
One had to slowly savour this book.
The nameless sergeant our narrator gives us a front seat into the poetry of noir along the poverty of London.
While investigating a crime for The Factory, just a regular crime not for the CID and their sophisticated techniques. An ordinary murder of a regular human being who was found in a bush.
Through his eyes we delve into the unknown, we listen to the cassettes of the victim and meet his friends and foe and get into this study of human character.
This series of 5 books that was reissued by Melville should be a must read to any reader who enjoys fine prose and an interesting book.
The nameless sergeant our narrator gives us a front seat into the poetry of noir along the poverty of London.
While investigating a crime for The Factory, just a regular crime not for the CID and their sophisticated techniques. An ordinary murder of a regular human being who was found in a bush.
Through his eyes we delve into the unknown, we listen to the cassettes of the victim and meet his friends and foe and get into this study of human character.
This series of 5 books that was reissued by Melville should be a must read to any reader who enjoys fine prose and an interesting book.
August 14, 2018
"Unhook the delicate, crazy lace of flesh, detach the heart with a single cut, unmask the tissue behind the skin, unhinge the ribs, disclose the spine, take down the long dress of muscle from the bones where it hangs erect. A pause to boil the knives-then take a bold but cunning curve, sweeping into the skull you had trepaned, into the brain, and extract it's art if you can."
A grim, gritty first look into 'The Factory'. Excellent!
A grim, gritty first look into 'The Factory'. Excellent!
July 15, 2019
No way do I read books from inside the mind of insane murderers.
Who writes this sick crap?
Who writes this sick crap?
February 16, 2023
Η αγγλική αστυνομική λογοτεχνία μου είναι σχεδόν άγνωστη. Ειδικά μάλιστα όσον αφορά την noir υποκατηγορία της που είναι και η αγαπημένη μου. Στο βιβλίο του Derek Raymond, συνάντησα σχεδόν όλα τα στοιχεία που με ενδιαφέρουν στην noir λογοτεχνία, με εξαίρεση τον πολιτικό παράγοντα.
Σε μια πρώτη ανάγνωση, θα μπορούσε να πει κάποιος πως έχουμε ένα κλασσικό μοτίβο που συναντάμε και σε άλλες περιπτώσεις: εξιχνίαση φόνου, ανακάλυψη κινήτρων, femme fatale, κτλ. Ωστόσο, ο συγγραφέας φαίνεται απλά να χρησιμοποιεί αυτόν τον σκελετό για να δώσει έμφαση στο ίδιο το θύμα της δολοφονίας: την ψυχοσύνθεση του, τις σκέψεις του, τον μηδενισμό του. Θα έλεγε κανείς πως συνθέτει με αρκετή μαεστρία ένα παζλ στο οποίο ο ανώνυμος επιθεωρητής προσπαθεί να δει την γενική εικόνα.
Ταυτόχρονα όμως προσπαθεί να συνθέσει το παζλ και ο αναγνώστης. Γιατί όσο περισσότερο διαβάζει τόσο πιο βαθιά πηγαίνει στις σκέψεις του θύματος μέσω τον σημειώσεων και μαγνητοφωνησεων που έχει αφήσει. Έτσι, δεν καταλαβαίνουμε τα αίτια της δολοφονίας μέσω μιας εξομολόγησης του θύτη στο τέλος της ιστορίας, αλλά αποκτούμε μια βαθύτερη αντίληψη για την υπόσταση του θύματος στον κόσμο και εμμέσως βλέπουμε πως ένας καλός άνθρωπος μπορεί να υπάρξει η όχι σε μια κακή κοινωνία, με όλη την σχετικότητα που έχουν αυτοί οι όροι.
Συνολικά μπορώ να εκτιμήσω θετικά αυτήν την επαφή με το έργο του Raymond, αν και στην προκειμένη φάνηκε πόσο αναγκαίο θεωρώ τον ευρύτερο κοινωνικό-πολιτικο παράγοντα στην noir λογοτεχνία.
Σε μια πρώτη ανάγνωση, θα μπορούσε να πει κάποιος πως έχουμε ένα κλασσικό μοτίβο που συναντάμε και σε άλλες περιπτώσεις: εξιχνίαση φόνου, ανακάλυψη κινήτρων, femme fatale, κτλ. Ωστόσο, ο συγγραφέας φαίνεται απλά να χρησιμοποιεί αυτόν τον σκελετό για να δώσει έμφαση στο ίδιο το θύμα της δολοφονίας: την ψυχοσύνθεση του, τις σκέψεις του, τον μηδενισμό του. Θα έλεγε κανείς πως συνθέτει με αρκετή μαεστρία ένα παζλ στο οποίο ο ανώνυμος επιθεωρητής προσπαθεί να δει την γενική εικόνα.
Ταυτόχρονα όμως προσπαθεί να συνθέσει το παζλ και ο αναγνώστης. Γιατί όσο περισσότερο διαβάζει τόσο πιο βαθιά πηγαίνει στις σκέψεις του θύματος μέσω τον σημειώσεων και μαγνητοφωνησεων που έχει αφήσει. Έτσι, δεν καταλαβαίνουμε τα αίτια της δολοφονίας μέσω μιας εξομολόγησης του θύτη στο τέλος της ιστορίας, αλλά αποκτούμε μια βαθύτερη αντίληψη για την υπόσταση του θύματος στον κόσμο και εμμέσως βλέπουμε πως ένας καλός άνθρωπος μπορεί να υπάρξει η όχι σε μια κακή κοινωνία, με όλη την σχετικότητα που έχουν αυτοί οι όροι.
Συνολικά μπορώ να εκτιμήσω θετικά αυτήν την επαφή με το έργο του Raymond, αν και στην προκειμένη φάνηκε πόσο αναγκαίο θεωρώ τον ευρύτερο κοινωνικό-πολιτικο παράγοντα στην noir λογοτεχνία.
February 12, 2019
There are many talented crime, suspense and mystery writers out there of all nationalities. I'm rarely disappointed with offerings in the noir genre. But here, author Derek Raymond has crafted not only an in-depth police procedural but also a piece of literature.
Written in the first person by the protagonist, a detective sergeant in the career dead-end Department of Unexplained Deaths, the reader is privvy to his thoughts and actions as he seeks the killer of a middle-aged man at the edge of society. In the detective's search for clues, he reads bits of things the dead man had written -- and listens to tapes the victim recorded. It is here that some universal truths are revealed, truths that speak to the detective, too.
Written in the first person by the protagonist, a detective sergeant in the career dead-end Department of Unexplained Deaths, the reader is privvy to his thoughts and actions as he seeks the killer of a middle-aged man at the edge of society. In the detective's search for clues, he reads bits of things the dead man had written -- and listens to tapes the victim recorded. It is here that some universal truths are revealed, truths that speak to the detective, too.
July 2, 2012
I'd seen a review of the Factory novels, of which this is the first, in, I think, The Nation, some time ago. I'd there got the impression that these crime novels were political in essence, an indictment of Britain under Thatcher, undergoing the baleful transformation that were the 1980s. While there is some of that in this book (constant reference to the high level of unemployment, to union go-slows, to squalor and racial tension), the book was mostly existential, expressing, as I suppose noir so often does, fear and loathing of an unspecified nature.
The first person narration is by un unnamed police sergeant, investigating the 'unimportant' death of an 'unimportant' person, a middle-age drunk who is found savagely beaten to death. The victim's effects include a large number of cassette tapes onto which he has recorded thoughts, memories, reflections, all adding up to a prolonged, articulated, and anguished scream. The investigator follows the clues in the tapes, interviews various people connected to the dead man and, eventually, owing to an increasing sense of identification with the victim, inserts himself into the action in a most surprising way.
The victim, Staniland, is a towering wreck of a man (someone here on GR notes how many similarities there are between him and the author), someone with whom it would be a torture to be connected, and yet immensely sympathetic and likable. His, for want of a better word, girlfriend Barbara, whom we learn about first through the many excerpts redacted from the cassettes and later, directly, through the policeman's investigations, is a frightening figure (her portrait perhaps, though perhaps not, reflecting a hint of misogyny on the part of the author, misogyny itself being an important theme in the book). The police sergeant’s own psychological journey through the novel, his growing identification with Staniland, is what propels and structures the book. (The traditional elements of the crime genre are not heavily operative and the book is not written as a whodunit, though it does take a bit of time for all that to become clear.) These three figures, the dead Staniland, Barbara, and the narrator, make an improbable and unholy triangle.
The book was first published in 1984, just around the time I was beginning my adult life in London. In fact, I lived in New Cross, where Barbara is living, which is right next to Lewisham, where the victim’s flat was. In 1981, there was a fire at a party of black youths in New Cross at which 13 people were killed. I walked by that house twice a day, both before and after the fire, on my way to and from the center of London. The author alludes to this event in passing, I think, though relocating the event to nearby Lewisham. I say all this because the London in this book is not all that recognizable to me. True, I was not very aware (politically or in any other sense) at that stage of my life; but it is partly the unfamiliarity of the place depicted in the book that leads me to read the novel existentially, rather than historically.
The first person narration is by un unnamed police sergeant, investigating the 'unimportant' death of an 'unimportant' person, a middle-age drunk who is found savagely beaten to death. The victim's effects include a large number of cassette tapes onto which he has recorded thoughts, memories, reflections, all adding up to a prolonged, articulated, and anguished scream. The investigator follows the clues in the tapes, interviews various people connected to the dead man and, eventually, owing to an increasing sense of identification with the victim, inserts himself into the action in a most surprising way.
The victim, Staniland, is a towering wreck of a man (someone here on GR notes how many similarities there are between him and the author), someone with whom it would be a torture to be connected, and yet immensely sympathetic and likable. His, for want of a better word, girlfriend Barbara, whom we learn about first through the many excerpts redacted from the cassettes and later, directly, through the policeman's investigations, is a frightening figure (her portrait perhaps, though perhaps not, reflecting a hint of misogyny on the part of the author, misogyny itself being an important theme in the book). The police sergeant’s own psychological journey through the novel, his growing identification with Staniland, is what propels and structures the book. (The traditional elements of the crime genre are not heavily operative and the book is not written as a whodunit, though it does take a bit of time for all that to become clear.) These three figures, the dead Staniland, Barbara, and the narrator, make an improbable and unholy triangle.
The book was first published in 1984, just around the time I was beginning my adult life in London. In fact, I lived in New Cross, where Barbara is living, which is right next to Lewisham, where the victim’s flat was. In 1981, there was a fire at a party of black youths in New Cross at which 13 people were killed. I walked by that house twice a day, both before and after the fire, on my way to and from the center of London. The author alludes to this event in passing, I think, though relocating the event to nearby Lewisham. I say all this because the London in this book is not all that recognizable to me. True, I was not very aware (politically or in any other sense) at that stage of my life; but it is partly the unfamiliarity of the place depicted in the book that leads me to read the novel existentially, rather than historically.
November 24, 2012
Armed with a box of tapes as evidence, the detective Sergeant sets out to solve the brutal murder of a middle-aged alcoholic who was found dumped on the city outskirts. Murder is a dime a dozen in London and Scotland Yard has more serious cases to deal with. This rogue detective is haunted by the voices on these cassette diaries which leaves him with no choice by to find out why He Died With His Eyes Open.
Book One of the Factory series follows the unnamed Detective Sergeant in his quest to solve the crime of someone the rest of the city does not care about. Part police procedural, part noir, Derek Raymond has a refreshingly new take on the pulp genre. Not only the fact that it combines procedural crime to the plot or the fact that it’s set in London, but what stood out to me is that Raymond mixed the dark hard hitting hard boiled protagonist and gave him compassion. You don’t actually see the compassion by his actions; this detective feels as hard boiled as they come, yet he seems to care about solving the crime of someone that doesn’t really matter. This is what made He Died With His Eyes Open so great.
I feel like Derek Raymond should be compared to noir legend Jim Thompson, mixing the dark and gritty with a real psychological aspect. While at times Raymond’s writing is a bit sloppy and the plot isn’t as tight as the greats, there is something quite spectacular about this novel. It feels like a normal pulp novel, but there is also something refreshingly different about this novel.
The unnamed protagonist is such a strong character, full of mystery and tough as nails. He Died With His Eyes Open is an absolute must read for pulp fans, and I must admit I’m so glad to read a crime novel like this that is not set in America. The English slang and terminology throughout this book was a joy to read. I like to see new spins in the pulp genre when they are done remarkably well, and this novel does just that. Everything you want in a deliciously dark pulp novel plus so many extras; He Died With His Eyes Open is worth getting your hands on.
This review originally appeared on my blog; http://literary-exploration.com/2012/...
Book One of the Factory series follows the unnamed Detective Sergeant in his quest to solve the crime of someone the rest of the city does not care about. Part police procedural, part noir, Derek Raymond has a refreshingly new take on the pulp genre. Not only the fact that it combines procedural crime to the plot or the fact that it’s set in London, but what stood out to me is that Raymond mixed the dark hard hitting hard boiled protagonist and gave him compassion. You don’t actually see the compassion by his actions; this detective feels as hard boiled as they come, yet he seems to care about solving the crime of someone that doesn’t really matter. This is what made He Died With His Eyes Open so great.
I feel like Derek Raymond should be compared to noir legend Jim Thompson, mixing the dark and gritty with a real psychological aspect. While at times Raymond’s writing is a bit sloppy and the plot isn’t as tight as the greats, there is something quite spectacular about this novel. It feels like a normal pulp novel, but there is also something refreshingly different about this novel.
The unnamed protagonist is such a strong character, full of mystery and tough as nails. He Died With His Eyes Open is an absolute must read for pulp fans, and I must admit I’m so glad to read a crime novel like this that is not set in America. The English slang and terminology throughout this book was a joy to read. I like to see new spins in the pulp genre when they are done remarkably well, and this novel does just that. Everything you want in a deliciously dark pulp novel plus so many extras; He Died With His Eyes Open is worth getting your hands on.
This review originally appeared on my blog; http://literary-exploration.com/2012/...
July 13, 2022
Ένα από τα πιο σκοτεινά και βαριά βιβλία που έχω διαβάσει, θα χρειαστώ καιρό σκέψης για να καταλήξω αν τα τέσσερα αστέρια μπορεί και να 'ναι πέντε...
October 10, 2019
I wondered what the value of truth really was, if getting at it entailed so many lies.
Derek Raymond’s London is a dark place filled with lies. They lie to themselves. They lie to others.
It is a world filled with pimps, drug dealers and users, crooked cops and indifferent cops, cheater and murderers, all for whose livelihood lies are an essential feature. Seemingly every morally reprehensible person in the city is front and center on display here. That is, with the notable exception of our nameless detective. Working in one of the lowest rungs of the police force and summoned to work on a brutal murder that nobody else wants to deal with, he occupies a moral high ground that literally nobody else here does. He is a man who thinks that:
“This fragile sweetness at the core of people, if we allowed that to be kicked, smashed and splintered, then we had no society at all of the kind I felt I had to uphold.”
Or so he believes.
Things are to say the least, various shades of gray as our detective’s sense of moral outrage that nobody cares about this victim (a seemingly good human consumed by the filth in the city that surrounded him) builds and builds, leading him to make choices that call into question his sense of righteousness.
Raymond’s narrative structure here is particularly interesting as our nameless detective gets to know his victim from a series of cassette tapes he left behind in the form of a kind of oral diary. Insecure, fragile, and beaten down by the world (and a little self pitying) the victim seems to awaken a kind of tenacity in our detective to avenge this kind soul. While the sections of the book taken up by the tapes are interesting, they do tend to meander into Shakespeare, self pity, poetry and other random ramblings of a clearly mentally unstable man. I found myself speed reading through them by the end and while sympathetic to the victim’s plight, by the end of the book just started to wish he’d of taken a bit more agency with his life and done something about all the things he whinged about. He was like a friend who is always telling you about their terrible boyfriend/girlfriend but never really listening to any of the advice you give them, just repeating the same things over and over, almost to the point of being infatuated with their own sorrow.
While there is physical violence in this book, a lot of it quite graphic, that is not the most disturbing thing about this story. It is more the mental violence these characters inflict on themselves and others. There are black holes where their souls should be. Cynicism instead of hope. Darkness that blots out any fraction of light.
This is a world where:
“There is neither love nor hatred, caresses or assault, in your dealing with the everyday”
I hesitate to say I enjoyed this book. I did not. It is however a fascinating study of mankind’s worst impulses and about as noir as noir can get.
Derek Raymond’s London is a dark place filled with lies. They lie to themselves. They lie to others.
It is a world filled with pimps, drug dealers and users, crooked cops and indifferent cops, cheater and murderers, all for whose livelihood lies are an essential feature. Seemingly every morally reprehensible person in the city is front and center on display here. That is, with the notable exception of our nameless detective. Working in one of the lowest rungs of the police force and summoned to work on a brutal murder that nobody else wants to deal with, he occupies a moral high ground that literally nobody else here does. He is a man who thinks that:
“This fragile sweetness at the core of people, if we allowed that to be kicked, smashed and splintered, then we had no society at all of the kind I felt I had to uphold.”
Or so he believes.
Things are to say the least, various shades of gray as our detective’s sense of moral outrage that nobody cares about this victim (a seemingly good human consumed by the filth in the city that surrounded him) builds and builds, leading him to make choices that call into question his sense of righteousness.
Raymond’s narrative structure here is particularly interesting as our nameless detective gets to know his victim from a series of cassette tapes he left behind in the form of a kind of oral diary. Insecure, fragile, and beaten down by the world (and a little self pitying) the victim seems to awaken a kind of tenacity in our detective to avenge this kind soul. While the sections of the book taken up by the tapes are interesting, they do tend to meander into Shakespeare, self pity, poetry and other random ramblings of a clearly mentally unstable man. I found myself speed reading through them by the end and while sympathetic to the victim’s plight, by the end of the book just started to wish he’d of taken a bit more agency with his life and done something about all the things he whinged about. He was like a friend who is always telling you about their terrible boyfriend/girlfriend but never really listening to any of the advice you give them, just repeating the same things over and over, almost to the point of being infatuated with their own sorrow.
While there is physical violence in this book, a lot of it quite graphic, that is not the most disturbing thing about this story. It is more the mental violence these characters inflict on themselves and others. There are black holes where their souls should be. Cynicism instead of hope. Darkness that blots out any fraction of light.
This is a world where:
“There is neither love nor hatred, caresses or assault, in your dealing with the everyday”
I hesitate to say I enjoyed this book. I did not. It is however a fascinating study of mankind’s worst impulses and about as noir as noir can get.
November 21, 2023
3,5/5
Αρκετα καλο, ωστε να θελω να διαβασω και το επομενο.
Και μολις ανακαλυψα, οτι οι εκδοσεις Ερμα, αντι να βγαλουν το 2ο βιβλιο της σειρας μετα, εβγαλαν το 4ο... Δηλαδη γιατι γίνεται αυτο τοσο συχνα; Δεν μιλαω μονο για τις συγκεκριμενες εκδοσεις(προφανως)
Edit: Μιλησα με τις εκδοσεις Ερμα και μου ειπαν θα βγαλουν και την υπολοιπη σειρα.
Αρκετα καλο, ωστε να θελω να διαβασω και το επομενο.
Και μολις ανακαλυψα, οτι οι εκδοσεις Ερμα, αντι να βγαλουν το 2ο βιβλιο της σειρας μετα, εβγαλαν το 4ο... Δηλαδη γιατι γίνεται αυτο τοσο συχνα; Δεν μιλαω μονο για τις συγκεκριμενες εκδοσεις(προφανως)
Edit: Μιλησα με τις εκδοσεις Ερμα και μου ειπαν θα βγαλουν και την υπολοιπη σειρα.
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