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Factory Series #3
How the Dead Live
“A sulphurous mixture of ferocious violence and high-fl own philosophy.”— Prospect The third novel in the acclaimed Factory crime series sees Derek Raymond’s nameless detective leave London for a remote village, where he’s meant to be investigating the disappearance of a local doctor’s wife. A fitting successor to classic noir writers such as Jim Thompson and David Goodis, with an introduction by Will Self. High-profile fans include Ian Rankin and James Sallis. Robin Cook was born in 1931. He reinvented himself as Derek Raymond and died in London in 1994.
213 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1986
13 people are currently reading
711 people want to read
About the author
Derek Raymond
20 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 82 reviews
June 12, 2015
Raymond's mouthpiece for his disgust with Thatcher-era London, the Unnamed Detective, is plucked out of his usual environs and is sicked on a small, country village where the wife of an elderly, aristocratic doctor has gone missing. Lucky for the Unnamed Detective - whose favorite activities are career suicide and pissing people off - even bucolic, sleepy hamlets are ripe with moral decay and grotesques who feed off of flesh and money. It only takes the UD a brief visit with the skeletal Dr. Mardy in his rotting Gothic mansion to know that something seriously sinister is afoot, a fact that becomes glaringly clear once the UD is warned off by the town constable, the mayor - who happens to be a local real estate tycoon - and local heavies operating out of a seedy gambling house. Unlike most police procedurals, Raymond has little interest in step-by-step investigations, and instead focuses the UD's attention on unveiling the hypocrisies of those he encounters and with dedicating an unhealthy amount of his soul to understanding the misfortunes of those he considers the real "victims."
As Will Self (an author I greatly admire who ganked this title for his own masterpiece) points out in his introduction to How the Dead Live, the departed - especially the wrongfully murdered - weigh heavy on Derek Raymond's take on the world. This is not your Agatha Christie murder mystery. Raymond's novel is rude, violent, perverse and mostly hopeless. The only silver lining in How the Dead Live is that maybe we're not all heartless lizards and that we can care about other people, even if it is usually already too late to do any good.
As Will Self (an author I greatly admire who ganked this title for his own masterpiece) points out in his introduction to How the Dead Live, the departed - especially the wrongfully murdered - weigh heavy on Derek Raymond's take on the world. This is not your Agatha Christie murder mystery. Raymond's novel is rude, violent, perverse and mostly hopeless. The only silver lining in How the Dead Live is that maybe we're not all heartless lizards and that we can care about other people, even if it is usually already too late to do any good.
April 13, 2024
This is the third novel in the Factory Series featuring the Unnamed Detective Sergeant.
He is dispatched to a remote village in Wiltshire by the “voice”, the Deputy Commander who assigns the Unnamed Detective Sergeant his cases by telephone.
A prominent local woman has disappeared or at least no one has seen her in over six months.
The local police inspector has taken a spectacular disinterest in this missing persons case but a Chief Constable from the region has reported it to Serious Crimes in London.
Serious Crimes is headed by the Unnamed Detective’s nemesis, Chief Inspector Charlie Bowman.
Bowman refers the case to Unexplained Deaths or A14 because there is no actual reported death –just a suspicion of one.
Bowman delights in getting the Unnamed Detective Sergeant assigned to investigate a crime out in the “sticks”.
This becomes almost a quasi-Sherlock Holmes/Philip Marlowe tale as concocted by Robert Louis Stevenson and H. P. Lovecraft.
Probably as much as a third of this novel is filled with the morbid ruminations of the trouble bound, not-quite-overly-emotional Unnamed Detective Sergeant.
We learn of his childhood growing up in London during the Second World War when the Germans were dropping bombs on British citizens.
We meet his sister in a series of devastatingly sweet and moving passages that convey the importance of looking after one’s loved ones and never forgetting the duties and responsibilities that love of blood kin demand.
There are long, long passages of melancholic self-reflection that are unlike anything I’ve ever read in the crime-thriller genre.
Yet it’s hardboiled as well and violent at times as are all of the entries in the Factory Series.
I would advise anyone interested in reading this series to start with the first entry and read each novel in the sequence in which they were published.
My work tells me that our history is over, we are all over. I know that in my work I am supposed to represent a future, but I find that impossible when I look back at the past.
(pages 11 – 12)
And how will we describe our own loss and pain to others, once we have passed to join a dead father by a dead fire in the darkness of a country that has gone?
(page 12)
But the homeless, made invisible in their misery by the frozen night, were folk that in my work I knew much too well; the ruins of their youth framed their shrieks. They screamed and robbed each other for any money or drug that would release them from their rags and bed of cement, sang, droned and wandered through these lost parts of the city for as long as hell lasted for them… (pages 25 – 26)
What maddened me sometimes with my work at A14 was that I could not get any justice for these people until they were dead …Yet no murder is worse to find than a body dead of cold against a door.
(page 26)
”I tell you I’m standing in for [Inspector Kedward]”, he said neutrally. “Nobody said you was coming, otherwise doubtless he’d have waited here to see you.”
“Nobody said I was coming”, I said, “because I didn’t say so myself, I like it better that way. I find detective work depends on being sudden at times and that’s me, do you see? Sudden.”
(page 35)
”None of us are ever all right”, I said. “We’re all just waiting for the death express.”
(page 98)
There are times when I feel alone in the face of our society, its hatred and madness, its despair and violence.
To go on drawing my pay, to go on living in Acacia Circus, to go on acting on my own, just to go on at all, I have to be very careful. I feel the edge of the precipice with every step I take and have to be most particular how I tread; the path isn’t solid, and under it is the mist and that vile slide towards a bottomless death.
I am a minor figure for whom no god waits. The state that pays me laughs at me; my own people at work find me absurd.
I dream across the altar of my past, have many enemies.
(page 134)
Death is its own best friend, and our dreams know it.
(page 141)
He is dispatched to a remote village in Wiltshire by the “voice”, the Deputy Commander who assigns the Unnamed Detective Sergeant his cases by telephone.
A prominent local woman has disappeared or at least no one has seen her in over six months.
The local police inspector has taken a spectacular disinterest in this missing persons case but a Chief Constable from the region has reported it to Serious Crimes in London.
Serious Crimes is headed by the Unnamed Detective’s nemesis, Chief Inspector Charlie Bowman.
Bowman refers the case to Unexplained Deaths or A14 because there is no actual reported death –just a suspicion of one.
Bowman delights in getting the Unnamed Detective Sergeant assigned to investigate a crime out in the “sticks”.
This becomes almost a quasi-Sherlock Holmes/Philip Marlowe tale as concocted by Robert Louis Stevenson and H. P. Lovecraft.
Probably as much as a third of this novel is filled with the morbid ruminations of the trouble bound, not-quite-overly-emotional Unnamed Detective Sergeant.
We learn of his childhood growing up in London during the Second World War when the Germans were dropping bombs on British citizens.
We meet his sister in a series of devastatingly sweet and moving passages that convey the importance of looking after one’s loved ones and never forgetting the duties and responsibilities that love of blood kin demand.
There are long, long passages of melancholic self-reflection that are unlike anything I’ve ever read in the crime-thriller genre.
Yet it’s hardboiled as well and violent at times as are all of the entries in the Factory Series.
I would advise anyone interested in reading this series to start with the first entry and read each novel in the sequence in which they were published.
My work tells me that our history is over, we are all over. I know that in my work I am supposed to represent a future, but I find that impossible when I look back at the past.
(pages 11 – 12)
And how will we describe our own loss and pain to others, once we have passed to join a dead father by a dead fire in the darkness of a country that has gone?
(page 12)
But the homeless, made invisible in their misery by the frozen night, were folk that in my work I knew much too well; the ruins of their youth framed their shrieks. They screamed and robbed each other for any money or drug that would release them from their rags and bed of cement, sang, droned and wandered through these lost parts of the city for as long as hell lasted for them… (pages 25 – 26)
What maddened me sometimes with my work at A14 was that I could not get any justice for these people until they were dead …Yet no murder is worse to find than a body dead of cold against a door.
(page 26)
”I tell you I’m standing in for [Inspector Kedward]”, he said neutrally. “Nobody said you was coming, otherwise doubtless he’d have waited here to see you.”
“Nobody said I was coming”, I said, “because I didn’t say so myself, I like it better that way. I find detective work depends on being sudden at times and that’s me, do you see? Sudden.”
(page 35)
”None of us are ever all right”, I said. “We’re all just waiting for the death express.”
(page 98)
There are times when I feel alone in the face of our society, its hatred and madness, its despair and violence.
To go on drawing my pay, to go on living in Acacia Circus, to go on acting on my own, just to go on at all, I have to be very careful. I feel the edge of the precipice with every step I take and have to be most particular how I tread; the path isn’t solid, and under it is the mist and that vile slide towards a bottomless death.
I am a minor figure for whom no god waits. The state that pays me laughs at me; my own people at work find me absurd.
I dream across the altar of my past, have many enemies.
(page 134)
Death is its own best friend, and our dreams know it.
(page 141)
November 12, 2012
"Life is made of slowly composed horrors."
The third entry in The Factory Series is Derek Raymond trying his hand at something slightly different and if not failing, then not quite matching his previous success. This one reads like a Hercules Poirot mystery but with the little Belgian grown weary of modern decay, beaten down by a lifetime of loss, pain and horror and developing a hardboiled attitude towards life.
The unnamed Sergeant is sent to investigate The Case of The Missing Mardy in a small English village, where everyone has something to hide and the majority of citizens are considered unworthy by our protagonist.
As always with Raymond the prose is poetic and bleak and the plot is interrupted by philosophical rants about the state of Thatcher's Britain but the building blocks that made the two previous novels so powerful are missing in small ways. The main source of frustration is how our hero seems to have dramatically changed his personality, his anger has become a lot more verbal and not in a good way. His dialogue (and those of other characters) was often painful to read and quite silly. This is not a matter of local slang, more speaking for the sake of the word count issues.
Still his piercing observations are turned on the death of the working classes, of small town life, of solidarity with your fellow man and naturally the broken nature of the police force. Britain is painted as morally bankrupt, the police force corrupt, concerned about their own image but with no interest in the public good, the media looking to vilify in order to shift units.
I'm left with an overall feeling of disappointment after this one and as such I don't have a huge amount to say. It's a fine piece of genre work that might have worked better without having read the two previous entries in the series but coming at it as I have I can't help but compare to those that came before and it pales in comparison. It helps to know that I Was Dora Suarez is next and it is regarded as his bleakest novel and his masterpiece.
The third entry in The Factory Series is Derek Raymond trying his hand at something slightly different and if not failing, then not quite matching his previous success. This one reads like a Hercules Poirot mystery but with the little Belgian grown weary of modern decay, beaten down by a lifetime of loss, pain and horror and developing a hardboiled attitude towards life.
The unnamed Sergeant is sent to investigate The Case of The Missing Mardy in a small English village, where everyone has something to hide and the majority of citizens are considered unworthy by our protagonist.
As always with Raymond the prose is poetic and bleak and the plot is interrupted by philosophical rants about the state of Thatcher's Britain but the building blocks that made the two previous novels so powerful are missing in small ways. The main source of frustration is how our hero seems to have dramatically changed his personality, his anger has become a lot more verbal and not in a good way. His dialogue (and those of other characters) was often painful to read and quite silly. This is not a matter of local slang, more speaking for the sake of the word count issues.
Still his piercing observations are turned on the death of the working classes, of small town life, of solidarity with your fellow man and naturally the broken nature of the police force. Britain is painted as morally bankrupt, the police force corrupt, concerned about their own image but with no interest in the public good, the media looking to vilify in order to shift units.
I'm left with an overall feeling of disappointment after this one and as such I don't have a huge amount to say. It's a fine piece of genre work that might have worked better without having read the two previous entries in the series but coming at it as I have I can't help but compare to those that came before and it pales in comparison. It helps to know that I Was Dora Suarez is next and it is regarded as his bleakest novel and his masterpiece.
May 22, 2018
word to the wise: never, EVER start your day by reading the end of one of Derek Raymond's Factory novels. After finishing this book I just wanted to cry.
http://www.crimesegments.com/2018/05/...
http://www.crimesegments.com/2018/05/...
March 30, 2016
This is the third book in Derek Raymond's Factory series.
The Factory novels, nominal police procedurals are narrated by an 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.
In How the Dead Live the unnamed Sergeant is sent out of London to investigate a missing person case in a small English village called Thornhill. The complicity and sleaze that is rife in the village is presumably meant to mirror that of broader British society. This was written in the mid-1980s and I wonder what Raymond would have made of our own era.
As with the previous two books, the prose is bleak and our uncompromising hero is like a blow torch, incinerating virtually everything that gets in his way. Unlike the previous books, he is discernibly angrier here, and his dialogue frequently seems to be that of a somewhat camp playground bully. I preferred him in the first book, when he went about his business in a quieter and more understated manner. Still, there is some predictable pleasure in him taking down a selection of corrupt fat cats in addition to some of his own colleagues.
This is the weakest of the three Factory novels that I have read so far. That said, I know that number four, I Was Dora Suarez (1990), is very highly regarded, and, for all its flaws, this is still compelling and I raced through it, and enjoyed the whole thing.
3/5
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
The Factory novels, nominal police procedurals are narrated by an 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.
In How the Dead Live the unnamed Sergeant is sent out of London to investigate a missing person case in a small English village called Thornhill. The complicity and sleaze that is rife in the village is presumably meant to mirror that of broader British society. This was written in the mid-1980s and I wonder what Raymond would have made of our own era.
As with the previous two books, the prose is bleak and our uncompromising hero is like a blow torch, incinerating virtually everything that gets in his way. Unlike the previous books, he is discernibly angrier here, and his dialogue frequently seems to be that of a somewhat camp playground bully. I preferred him in the first book, when he went about his business in a quieter and more understated manner. Still, there is some predictable pleasure in him taking down a selection of corrupt fat cats in addition to some of his own colleagues.
This is the weakest of the three Factory novels that I have read so far. That said, I know that number four, I Was Dora Suarez (1990), is very highly regarded, and, for all its flaws, this is still compelling and I raced through it, and enjoyed the whole thing.
3/5
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
Read
June 4, 2013The third case for the nameless* detective sergeant from the Unexplained Deaths division of the Factory, and for me the strongest yet. He's out of London this time, in a ghastly little anytown, but his methods remain the same: prowl around being an obnoxious prick in the hope that this will rattle loose the truth. But not an indiscriminate prick - the sergeant will happily deck a colleague, but he'll always do what he can for those he perceives as victims, even when by the letter of the law they're the criminals. His philosophical side seems to get more of a look-in here than in the first two books, and at times there are whole pages of inner monologue which read as though the Rimbaud of 'Season in Hell' had suddenly got compassionate. Is it plausible? I don't know, just as I suspect the shady argot may not be accurate for 1986. But it's definitely true. "All I want is for our democracy to be rid of violent bores", he says, but by heavens there are plenty. This is a state of the nation novel which rings at least as true now as when it was written - an elegy for the finer notes in the British nature, pissed away because people with money saw ways to make more money by putting it all in hock.
I didn't care for Will Self's introduction. Even aside from the backhanded compliments, faint praise and general air of superiority (all things one expects from Self, but still rather inappropriate here), he confesses to not having read the book when he nabbed its title. Poor form.
*He's so routinely referred to as 'nameless' that it almost becomes a name in itself, like that sword in Viriconium.
I didn't care for Will Self's introduction. Even aside from the backhanded compliments, faint praise and general air of superiority (all things one expects from Self, but still rather inappropriate here), he confesses to not having read the book when he nabbed its title. Poor form.
*He's so routinely referred to as 'nameless' that it almost becomes a name in itself, like that sword in Viriconium.
May 21, 2017
A Thornhill, un paesino a poche leghe da Londra, convivono - in un'alone di mistero - il dolore, la disperazione, l'amore, la solitudine, l'illusione, la speranza.
Qui una donna scompare, ma nessuno sembra preoccuparsi. Alcuni insistenti pettegolezzi, però, raggiungono i responsabili della Sezione A14 Delitti Irrisolti, la Factory, e il nostro sergente senza nome parte. Questo caso fa per lui.
In un ambiente decadente la corruzione di alcuni cammina a braccetto con la disperazione di altri.
Lui, il sergente senza nome, si presenta come al solito irriverente, duro, provocatorio, ma di fronte al dolore, alla dignità e alla venerazione assoluta di un uomo, china la testa in segno di grande rispetto e apre il cuore alla pietà, lasciando da parte giustizia e logica, creando - tra riflessioni, analisi e ricordi - attimi di pura poesia che, unendosi alla descrizione attenta e impietosa del male di vivere e del dolore delle vittime, arricchisce di una nota di dolcezza questo noir, scuotendo sensi e sentimenti.
Questo libro è di una sorprendente umanità che stringe il cuore e fa venire i brividi.
"Sembra banale, il dialogo del lutto, ma non lo è. Come quello della scienza, il potere dell'immaginazione è enorme, e grazie alle macchine del cuore e del cervello creiamo quella vita oltre la morte che siamo sicuri ci attenda."
📚 Biblioteca
Qui una donna scompare, ma nessuno sembra preoccuparsi. Alcuni insistenti pettegolezzi, però, raggiungono i responsabili della Sezione A14 Delitti Irrisolti, la Factory, e il nostro sergente senza nome parte. Questo caso fa per lui.
In un ambiente decadente la corruzione di alcuni cammina a braccetto con la disperazione di altri.
Lui, il sergente senza nome, si presenta come al solito irriverente, duro, provocatorio, ma di fronte al dolore, alla dignità e alla venerazione assoluta di un uomo, china la testa in segno di grande rispetto e apre il cuore alla pietà, lasciando da parte giustizia e logica, creando - tra riflessioni, analisi e ricordi - attimi di pura poesia che, unendosi alla descrizione attenta e impietosa del male di vivere e del dolore delle vittime, arricchisce di una nota di dolcezza questo noir, scuotendo sensi e sentimenti.
Questo libro è di una sorprendente umanità che stringe il cuore e fa venire i brividi.
"Sembra banale, il dialogo del lutto, ma non lo è. Come quello della scienza, il potere dell'immaginazione è enorme, e grazie alle macchine del cuore e del cervello creiamo quella vita oltre la morte che siamo sicuri ci attenda."
📚 Biblioteca
February 27, 2014
This is the disappointing third book (of 5) in Derek Raymond’s Factory Series. Dialogue which should be snappy veers into the sappy. And silly. Or paragraph after paragraph that no person would say. Ever. The author sneaks in an admission (p. 189): “It sounds banal, the dialogue of bereavement….” It sure does. The ending is ludicrous. This is more gothic than noir. If a book can jump the shark, this one does when the Nameless Detective Sergeant whips out his cock (his word choice) and pisses all over a bad guy’s Rolls-Royce (p. 200). I don’t know why I give it two stars—maybe nostalgia for the previous two books in the series and hopes for the two to come.
February 26, 2019
The third novel in David Raymond's Factory series, sees his nameless detective leave London for rural Wiltshire where he investigates the disappearance of a local doctors wife.
Like the other novels in this series, Raymond is not concerned with the mystery, or the police procedure. Instead he is obsessed with the skull beneath the skin, and the story is an interesting investigation into love, loss, and damnation, wrapped up in a plausable crime noir involving blackmail, extortion, and police corruption.
Like the other novels in this series, Raymond is not concerned with the mystery, or the police procedure. Instead he is obsessed with the skull beneath the skin, and the story is an interesting investigation into love, loss, and damnation, wrapped up in a plausable crime noir involving blackmail, extortion, and police corruption.
February 9, 2014
Between 3 and 4 stars. Terrific dialogue, memorable setting...weird set-up, macabre, which I'm fine with but a strong strain of sentimentality/romanticism marred it for me. Otherwise, quite good. Raymond's worth reading, this is just his second for me so far. His maverick investigator is a lot of fun to hang around, if unabashedly macho in a way detectives rarely are these days...they usually hold it in check and/or work a melancholic streak.
April 7, 2024
While this isn’t the best of Raymond’s Factory novels, it’s still so much weirder and more interesting than your average crime book.. The unnamed protagonist travels to a small town to solve a mystery and butts heads with local cops, weirdos, and lowlifes. The mystery (as it always is for me in mystery novels) is meh. What makes the book interesting are the cop’s dark philosophical musings and his insult-fests with the other characters. Sad and funny and worth your time.
Read
October 11, 2020Our unnamed detective investigates the disappearance of an old woman in a small town, discovers tragedy and corruption. It's a little one-note in its despairing noir nihilism (false nihilism really) but it is effective and well-written.
December 13, 2013
This third novel in the Factory Series has the unnamed sergeant from A14, the Department of Unexplained Deaths, leaving the grimy streets of London for the moral cesspool that is village England, 1986. After six months, a missing persons case sounds more and more like murder, hence the involvement of A14. Mrs. Mardry, the French wife of a fading aristocrat and a woman who once entertained the locals with singing concerts, has gone been missing. She had been ill, had taken to wearing a veil in public and her voice was reduced to a whisper. And then she was gone. And the police take no interest. And there is the question of a delivery of dry ice from the local undertaker during an electrical strike some weeks before. Shady real estate deals abound. The local gambling club is crooked.
Raymond’s books are classic noir, first person narratives that lead the reader into the darkness the hero knows surrounds most of human endeavor. Our hero, by they way, is an insufferable asshole when he deals with other people, but then the other people are fools, villains, and have the misfortune of getting in his way. Lament and fury inform his narrative in equal measure. “What angered me sometimes with my work for A14,” he says, “was that I could get no justice for these people until they were dead.”
What has happened in the village of Thornhill is macabre with baroque elements matched by Raymond’s narrative style. There is a crumbling manse straight from 18th century gothic fiction, complete with a horror in the basement. Men are cowardly, craven, and murderous. Women are avaricious crooks or whores. The philosophizing, from both the sergeant and the murder suspect, comes in batches as high flown as the obscenities the characters speak. Perhaps it’s a bit much when the sergeant quotes Edmund Spenser, but in this type of storytelling, too much strikes the proper tone.
Raymond’s books are classic noir, first person narratives that lead the reader into the darkness the hero knows surrounds most of human endeavor. Our hero, by they way, is an insufferable asshole when he deals with other people, but then the other people are fools, villains, and have the misfortune of getting in his way. Lament and fury inform his narrative in equal measure. “What angered me sometimes with my work for A14,” he says, “was that I could get no justice for these people until they were dead.”
What has happened in the village of Thornhill is macabre with baroque elements matched by Raymond’s narrative style. There is a crumbling manse straight from 18th century gothic fiction, complete with a horror in the basement. Men are cowardly, craven, and murderous. Women are avaricious crooks or whores. The philosophizing, from both the sergeant and the murder suspect, comes in batches as high flown as the obscenities the characters speak. Perhaps it’s a bit much when the sergeant quotes Edmund Spenser, but in this type of storytelling, too much strikes the proper tone.
May 27, 2011
I picked this up, read a few chapters, was completely hooked, and realized that I should read the first two in the series. I have now, and I am already sad that after this one, there is only one more left in the series.
It's weird that the intro is by Will Self, who also wrote a book called How the Dead Live.
A lot of people feel that Raymond has a tendency to slip into melodrama. I know what they mean, but don't actually mind it. Crime is melodrama.
Writing a few days later now. Just finished it. This time, narrator's slips into reminiscences, his hifalutions about emptiness of existence annoyed me. But the overall set up of the book was so powerful that, for the second time now a novel by Derek Raymond inflected my dreams. (Perhaps, it helped that in the book the narrator and the main murder suspect frequently tell us their dreams). Below is the record of my dream, not a quote from the book.
I dreamed that i went to sleep on a sofa at a friends' house and awoke 30 or 40 years later. My host aged not at all, lost his paunch, in fact looked like someone else entirely. His child, who was the first to greet me upon my waking, could not tell me what year it was. With difficulty I located a news site on a computer. Apparently, "news" is something that only very few old-fashioned people care about in the future.
In my dream, my host married a woman I love. Presumably, it was her child that greeted me. Unfortunately, the offspring's gender was not sufficiently clear for me to understand that this was my new bride.
Meanwhile, the mother was nowhere present in the dream. You know how dreams are: a series of substitutions.
This dream also had an unusual pet: something between a dog and a baby seal (a water rat?).
It's weird that the intro is by Will Self, who also wrote a book called How the Dead Live.
A lot of people feel that Raymond has a tendency to slip into melodrama. I know what they mean, but don't actually mind it. Crime is melodrama.
Writing a few days later now. Just finished it. This time, narrator's slips into reminiscences, his hifalutions about emptiness of existence annoyed me. But the overall set up of the book was so powerful that, for the second time now a novel by Derek Raymond inflected my dreams. (Perhaps, it helped that in the book the narrator and the main murder suspect frequently tell us their dreams). Below is the record of my dream, not a quote from the book.
I dreamed that i went to sleep on a sofa at a friends' house and awoke 30 or 40 years later. My host aged not at all, lost his paunch, in fact looked like someone else entirely. His child, who was the first to greet me upon my waking, could not tell me what year it was. With difficulty I located a news site on a computer. Apparently, "news" is something that only very few old-fashioned people care about in the future.
In my dream, my host married a woman I love. Presumably, it was her child that greeted me. Unfortunately, the offspring's gender was not sufficiently clear for me to understand that this was my new bride.
Meanwhile, the mother was nowhere present in the dream. You know how dreams are: a series of substitutions.
This dream also had an unusual pet: something between a dog and a baby seal (a water rat?).
July 6, 2012
Read it again two years later, and liked it better.
He describes the neighborhoods west of London. "Blocks of semi-abandoned streets made dead ends of effort where people who had tried o start something — anything — had been crushed by the dull, triumphant logic of the state."
"The wife's a poor little woman — dead red hair, no bust, the kind of woman no one ever wants to sin with and who dreams of murder."
At the gambling club: "She took two new packs from under the table and slit the seals with a thumbnail like a kitchen knife that had done murder."
Lots of stuff like this. Give this an extra half star
I like to just putter around the library, grabbing things that look like they might be interesting.
Which is how I stumbled on Derek Raymond.
His unnamed detective has to go to the English countryside to unravel the disappearance of a woman. His superiors — some of them, anyway — aren't all that anxious for this thing to get unraveled.
Crooked cops, an undertaker with a sinister criminal empire, and massive doses of existentialist tough guy talk make "How the Dead Live" stand out.
I could do without quite as much philosophical musing, which puts the brakes on the story. But it's a minot complaint, and I am looking forward to reading the rest of the late Mr. Raymond's back catalog.
He describes the neighborhoods west of London. "Blocks of semi-abandoned streets made dead ends of effort where people who had tried o start something — anything — had been crushed by the dull, triumphant logic of the state."
"The wife's a poor little woman — dead red hair, no bust, the kind of woman no one ever wants to sin with and who dreams of murder."
At the gambling club: "She took two new packs from under the table and slit the seals with a thumbnail like a kitchen knife that had done murder."
Lots of stuff like this. Give this an extra half star
I like to just putter around the library, grabbing things that look like they might be interesting.
Which is how I stumbled on Derek Raymond.
His unnamed detective has to go to the English countryside to unravel the disappearance of a woman. His superiors — some of them, anyway — aren't all that anxious for this thing to get unraveled.
Crooked cops, an undertaker with a sinister criminal empire, and massive doses of existentialist tough guy talk make "How the Dead Live" stand out.
I could do without quite as much philosophical musing, which puts the brakes on the story. But it's a minot complaint, and I am looking forward to reading the rest of the late Mr. Raymond's back catalog.
July 6, 2015
How the Dead Live (Factory 3) Having read I Was Dora Suarez, I wanted to read a bit more featuring the unnamed detective. This had the same gritty, gory fabric of that book with a different story over the top.Interesting to read a modern novel with no mobile phones and when the word computer is used you can almost taste the newness of it. A good look at life in England circa 1986.The detective is once again nameless but more of his past is revealed and a deep dark story it is. In fact at times his own past and the current story kinda merge in terms of flow, though not in detail. It is like reading one book with another running underneath.
Fascinating.I've read other reviews of this series (there are 5) which describe his writing and variable. Given that he was creating a new genre I think I can understand that. I also think his writing was lead by the detective whose life was indeed variable.These were real books, not Kindle books. I bought them from The Book Depository for mere pennies with free delivery. The thing was though, the books looked and felt new but smelled like they had been kept in a cupboard in a village hall since 1986.
Fascinating.I've read other reviews of this series (there are 5) which describe his writing and variable. Given that he was creating a new genre I think I can understand that. I also think his writing was lead by the detective whose life was indeed variable.These were real books, not Kindle books. I bought them from The Book Depository for mere pennies with free delivery. The thing was though, the books looked and felt new but smelled like they had been kept in a cupboard in a village hall since 1986.
December 14, 2016
«È solo se hai visto qualcuno morire che sai che cosa vuol dire sentirsi responsabili»
Torna il sergente senza nome della Sezione Delitti Irrisolti, questa volta deve occuparsi della sparizione di una donna, Marianne Mardy, una donna francese molto in vista ed ammirata, residente con il marito nella cittadina di Thornhill.
Rispetto ai due romanzi precedenti, questa terza avventura della serie della Factory mi è piaciuta un po’ meno. I personaggi tratteggiati da Raymond sono sempre molto realistici, però la spregiudicatezza del sergente questa volta mi è sembrata forzata e prende troppo il sopravvento rispetto a tutto il resto.
Resta comunque uno dei miei scrittori noir preferiti.
Torna il sergente senza nome della Sezione Delitti Irrisolti, questa volta deve occuparsi della sparizione di una donna, Marianne Mardy, una donna francese molto in vista ed ammirata, residente con il marito nella cittadina di Thornhill.
Rispetto ai due romanzi precedenti, questa terza avventura della serie della Factory mi è piaciuta un po’ meno. I personaggi tratteggiati da Raymond sono sempre molto realistici, però la spregiudicatezza del sergente questa volta mi è sembrata forzata e prende troppo il sopravvento rispetto a tutto il resto.
Resta comunque uno dei miei scrittori noir preferiti.
July 24, 2009
Derek Raymond is a very strange noir 'London' writer. The four stars is for the dialogue which is great. The plotting is ok, it's like any other workable who done it or what's going to happen in the next page. The one thing I am not crazy about is the ending of the book. It gets kind of sad and gooey in the end. In many ways, he is the most Raymond Chandler writer of all Chandler writers. He has the sentiment and the sense of justice down pat like Chandler - and his writing is very rich and textured like.
August 17, 2017
freddo, triste e pesante come un inverno in un isolato paese dove vivono solo giovani spiantati e anziani reduci di guerra che aspettano la fine tra un bicchiere e l'altro: e qui abbiamo esattamente questo, con in più case in sfacelo, locali di infima categoria e degrado umano e sociale. non credo di spolierare troppo dicendo che chi cerca qui un lieto fine ha sbagliato libro e, soprattutto, ha sbagliato autore.
December 11, 2010
wonderfully imaginative and disturbing
January 14, 2013
Another beautifully written Factory novel. Dark, but well worth it.
February 23, 2020
another one I read in French a long time ago and intend to read in English.
Cet écrivain est connu en France sous son vrai nom de Robin Cook (à ne pas confondre avec l'auteur de thrillers médicaux)
Cet écrivain est connu en France sous son vrai nom de Robin Cook (à ne pas confondre avec l'auteur de thrillers médicaux)
June 6, 2018
A classic noirish whodunit, with a very bleak outlook on the England of the mid-1980's.
October 27, 2024
wonderful prose. 3+
April 18, 2026
‘Naked thinking, she said, is the last indignity – the dead breast covered by your only lover long after he has died, been run over, gone mad or gone away: in the end what we name love is nothing but a thin remembrance, a deferred loss. Great ghost, you are a broken officer, our spirit is denounced, stripped and reduced to the ranks where it can shuffle unseen; bitterness, disgust and self-interest remain. All defeat, all battlefields are the same. Even Napoleon after Jena, even Wellington after Waterloo finally learned how to weep over the waste of trust, over faith in death lying where it fell, the lazy eyes, the broken arms and the stink of last meals bursting open for the rats into fresh, uncaring air – birds, flies, sun settling expertly on ideas according to earth’s primitive necessity, her sanitation and her plan.’
‘I felt that we were all of us, without exception, filled with errors and that we knew it, yet had to live through them. It would have been better to be stupid, perhaps even mad. It’s the capacity of knowing that’s the real agony of existence; maybe we would all of us be more honest without knowledge. Yet it was a hall of mirrors.’
‘I had no haven to offer him; in a way I was as helpless as he was. I was strictly bound by the terms of my inquiry into a disappearance, a suspected death. I had to grind on and live, even if I didn’t know why. My silly idea about absolute justice, I wonder if it’s not just an excuse so as to go on talking to people, continue on in the light so as not to have to die, go into the dark. How balance my interest against disinterest? But as a police officer I couldn’t possibly tell Sanders, not even my lover if I had one, any of that. And yet I saw Sanders in that vague light, in that barn, both of us fresh from that drunken re, exhausted by the shock of it, and I knew by looking at his face that he was begging me, reaching to me for the one thing that I couldn’t give him – help. How alone we are! The one real risk we run is to understand our state: the rest are stupid smiling, cruel or uncaring people, all of them idiots, broken into the confused tragedy of a herd driven forward across hard country to be killed, and at a profit.’
‘‘The sun never shone on me; I was born to be screwed.’
‘I knew what he meant; I knew that no matter how much music you played in the motor it could never drown out your trouble, all the trouble of your state.’
‘I studied him and realized that madness is the last defence of the mind when it can’t hope to reconcile itself with events; I, too, was standing between routine and the unknowable. I could not say what I ought to have said: we all have to die.’
‘Reality is to be questioned, not accepted. Matter dangles on a rail, drawn and dark like a curtain or an overdraft. Our state is an unending crisis and the invisible, crammed with errors, crashes through us. Defeated, broken, my ideas ridiculed, my beliefs punishable by law, I am in an impossible decline, going to the point where life and death squarely cross. Reason steers me to my end; nightly both hurry in against me between damp sheets. But I resist, knowing that life is a short fever.
‘And so power is crowned and uncrowned at a stroke, the change between trust and murder.’
‘…we are all of us forced out of our shape by necessity and by events beyond our control.
‘To pray for your dead is in a certain way to be dead oneself.’
‘I felt that we were all of us, without exception, filled with errors and that we knew it, yet had to live through them. It would have been better to be stupid, perhaps even mad. It’s the capacity of knowing that’s the real agony of existence; maybe we would all of us be more honest without knowledge. Yet it was a hall of mirrors.’
‘I had no haven to offer him; in a way I was as helpless as he was. I was strictly bound by the terms of my inquiry into a disappearance, a suspected death. I had to grind on and live, even if I didn’t know why. My silly idea about absolute justice, I wonder if it’s not just an excuse so as to go on talking to people, continue on in the light so as not to have to die, go into the dark. How balance my interest against disinterest? But as a police officer I couldn’t possibly tell Sanders, not even my lover if I had one, any of that. And yet I saw Sanders in that vague light, in that barn, both of us fresh from that drunken re, exhausted by the shock of it, and I knew by looking at his face that he was begging me, reaching to me for the one thing that I couldn’t give him – help. How alone we are! The one real risk we run is to understand our state: the rest are stupid smiling, cruel or uncaring people, all of them idiots, broken into the confused tragedy of a herd driven forward across hard country to be killed, and at a profit.’
‘‘The sun never shone on me; I was born to be screwed.’
‘I knew what he meant; I knew that no matter how much music you played in the motor it could never drown out your trouble, all the trouble of your state.’
‘I studied him and realized that madness is the last defence of the mind when it can’t hope to reconcile itself with events; I, too, was standing between routine and the unknowable. I could not say what I ought to have said: we all have to die.’
‘Reality is to be questioned, not accepted. Matter dangles on a rail, drawn and dark like a curtain or an overdraft. Our state is an unending crisis and the invisible, crammed with errors, crashes through us. Defeated, broken, my ideas ridiculed, my beliefs punishable by law, I am in an impossible decline, going to the point where life and death squarely cross. Reason steers me to my end; nightly both hurry in against me between damp sheets. But I resist, knowing that life is a short fever.
‘And so power is crowned and uncrowned at a stroke, the change between trust and murder.’
‘…we are all of us forced out of our shape by necessity and by events beyond our control.
‘To pray for your dead is in a certain way to be dead oneself.’
March 27, 2026
Qualcuno direbbe che si torna sempre sul luogo del delitto. Io dico che se un autore mi entra dentro, in maniera assolutamente chirurgica, finirò per tornare sistematicamente da lui. Abitudine? Forse. Voglia di sicurezze? Sicuramente. È che quando sei stato bene in un determinato posto, viene naturale pensare di rivisitarlo, magari per coglierne qualcosa di nuovo, di diverso.
Con "Come vivono i morti" il buon Derek Raymond,con il suo stile particolare dell'intendere il romanzo crime, ci porta dritti per dritti in una storia altamente truce ambientata a Thornhill, nella cosiddetta "english countryside". Il protagonista? È sempre il sergente senza nome, che contro tutto e tutti, forse anche sempre anche un po' contro se stesso, avanza nel fango denso e nero di cui Raymond riempie a piene mani le sue storie.
Ecco. Proprio di questo volevo parlare. Ormai sono alla terza lettura di un libro di quella che è la sua "saga della Factory" e devo ammettere che all'inizio tutta questa cappa di oscurità che accompagna pensieri, azioni e scenari in cui si muove il protagonista, l'ho trovata veramente troppo pesante. E per troppo intendo a tratti quasi forzata. Certo, ormai è lampante che questa sia esattamente la cifra narrativa con cui Raymond ha scelto di caratterizzare il suo personaggio e le sue storie, però in certi momenti ho avuto la sensazione che la mano venisse veramente troppo calcata senza alcuna reale necessità narrativa.
A parte questo, però, come sempre la storia prende e in un baleno si viene trascinati nelle pieghe contorte di quella che nasce come una denuncia di una "innocua" sparizione e finisce, piano piano, pagina dopo pagina, ad assumere i connotati di una storia più profonda, più articolata. Raymond ama moltissimo mischiare le carte e presentare delle situazioni in cui quasi sempre il concetto di "buono" e "cattivo" è una linea molto crepuscolare fra i due estremi e dove determinare vittime e carnefici è un'operazione che l'autore quasi lascia, in maniera sfrontata, all'idea di morale di ogni lettore.
La guida in tutto questo processo è sempre lui. Il sergente senza nome, che se ci fosse un campionato del mondo di stato depressivo cronico, probabilmente, vincerebbe a mani basse in ogni categoria. È con lui che scopriamo quanto marcio si possa nascondere sotto il tappeto rassicurante della quotidianità. È con lui che inizia e finisce questo ennesimo tour all'interno di un circo di eventi in cui emerge il suo talento particolare nel far venire a galla la verità. Con ogni mezzo e con quel suo piglio da personaggio di un film di Guy Ritchie che ormai mi ha definitivamente conquistato.
Continuerò a leggere quel che manca per completare il ciclo della Factory? Assolutamente sì. Perché ormai Derek Raymond è diventato il mio luogo fidato verso cui ritornare, se si ha voglia di una bella storia noir e di un personaggio fuori dalle righe.
https://www.rossettimarco.com/2026/03...
Con "Come vivono i morti" il buon Derek Raymond,con il suo stile particolare dell'intendere il romanzo crime, ci porta dritti per dritti in una storia altamente truce ambientata a Thornhill, nella cosiddetta "english countryside". Il protagonista? È sempre il sergente senza nome, che contro tutto e tutti, forse anche sempre anche un po' contro se stesso, avanza nel fango denso e nero di cui Raymond riempie a piene mani le sue storie.
Ecco. Proprio di questo volevo parlare. Ormai sono alla terza lettura di un libro di quella che è la sua "saga della Factory" e devo ammettere che all'inizio tutta questa cappa di oscurità che accompagna pensieri, azioni e scenari in cui si muove il protagonista, l'ho trovata veramente troppo pesante. E per troppo intendo a tratti quasi forzata. Certo, ormai è lampante che questa sia esattamente la cifra narrativa con cui Raymond ha scelto di caratterizzare il suo personaggio e le sue storie, però in certi momenti ho avuto la sensazione che la mano venisse veramente troppo calcata senza alcuna reale necessità narrativa.
A parte questo, però, come sempre la storia prende e in un baleno si viene trascinati nelle pieghe contorte di quella che nasce come una denuncia di una "innocua" sparizione e finisce, piano piano, pagina dopo pagina, ad assumere i connotati di una storia più profonda, più articolata. Raymond ama moltissimo mischiare le carte e presentare delle situazioni in cui quasi sempre il concetto di "buono" e "cattivo" è una linea molto crepuscolare fra i due estremi e dove determinare vittime e carnefici è un'operazione che l'autore quasi lascia, in maniera sfrontata, all'idea di morale di ogni lettore.
La guida in tutto questo processo è sempre lui. Il sergente senza nome, che se ci fosse un campionato del mondo di stato depressivo cronico, probabilmente, vincerebbe a mani basse in ogni categoria. È con lui che scopriamo quanto marcio si possa nascondere sotto il tappeto rassicurante della quotidianità. È con lui che inizia e finisce questo ennesimo tour all'interno di un circo di eventi in cui emerge il suo talento particolare nel far venire a galla la verità. Con ogni mezzo e con quel suo piglio da personaggio di un film di Guy Ritchie che ormai mi ha definitivamente conquistato.
Continuerò a leggere quel che manca per completare il ciclo della Factory? Assolutamente sì. Perché ormai Derek Raymond è diventato il mio luogo fidato verso cui ritornare, se si ha voglia di una bella storia noir e di un personaggio fuori dalle righe.
https://www.rossettimarco.com/2026/03...
March 26, 2026
A14 goes to The Countryside and mercilessly harangues everyone he meets, usually with good reason. In between these encounters is some truely moving and heartbreaking prose about the fleetingness of love and the arguable impossibility of justice in a decaying world. Borrows a plot detail from the backstory of a Batman villain but still manages to be devastating.
January 8, 2026
I'd actually give it an extra 1/2 star. Much better than I was anticipating.
May 20, 2015
«Quello che si fa da giovani,» mi stava dicendo prendendomi per il gomito, «non si disfa da vecchi, come mi dicevano i miei nonni.»
Raymond Derek è davvero un grande scrittore, Come vivono i morti un altro splendido romanzo noir della serie Factory e il sergente senza nome uno dei più bei personaggi del genere hard boiled.
Un romanzo amaro e meraviglioso, che eccede, con le sue dolenti pagine sul tema della vecchiaia e della morte.
A Thornhill, poco fuori Londra, c’è una grande villa in decadenza. Un tempo le sue stanze risuonavano di un canto melodioso, ma ora non si ode che silenzio. Gli interni sono bui e i muri scrostati, la pioggia goccia monotona dai soffitti. L’affascinante Madame Mardy, giunta anni prima dalla Francia a seguito del marito, con la sua voce delicata e i suoi modi garbati, è scomparsa.
A14, sezione Delitti Irrisolti, il sergente viene accolto da un clima di omertà e corruzione ma il suo scopo è dare pari dignità ai morti, specie se appartengono a una realtà dimenticata, se sono ai margini , se nessuno vuole ricordarli e tanto meno piangerli.
Il suo concetto di conoscenza si riassume in due parole: angoscia e disperazione, perché di ciò è stata quasi sempre fatta la sua vita.
Questo è il grande tema che Raymond Derek traccia senza tentennamenti, senza compromessi , il grande rispetto per la dignità e la sofferenza umana . Un valore assoluto che non ammette privilegi e differenze ma solo rispetto, a qualunque livello.
Ho letto e recensito E morì ad occhi aperti , Il mio nome era Dora Suarez, tutti capolavori del genere noir.
Non so che cosa pagherei per non vedere ciò che sta dietro quello che vedo, per non sentire ciò che sta dietro quello che sento, per non sapere ciò che sta dietro quello che so, e trovare solo corruzione. Tutta la nostra agonia è un modesto prodigio destinato a essere dimenticato, come quando si spengono le luci dopo lo spettacolo e fuori incomincia a nevicare. Ma nella mia parte come posso trovare le parole per ciò che sento, se il linguaggio, come la vita, è diventato irrecuperabile e arranca dietro le macerie della natura? Pochi hanno il tempo di invecchiare guardando in faccia bellezza e terrore, e io ho cercato di farlo troppo a lungo.
Il noir come metafisica, come approccio non religioso al concetto del male e dell'egoismo che pervade lo sviluppo della civiltà occidentale, facendo brandelli nel tempo di ogni valore di rispetto e eguaglianza
Quattro pareti possono diventare d’un tratto un cuore troppo pieno per il linguaggio, uno spazio di dolore al di là della descrizione, muto ma tangibile. Le ali invisibili ma spezzate dell’amore battono sui vetri dove le parole premono con maggiore urgenza, e l’ansia che hai dentro è legata a doppio filo con ciò che non immagini. Nelle case dove entro riesco a sentire la morte, anche se è un omicidio dimenticato: il corto pugnale, il bagliore rosso di uno sparo, la tensione incontrollabile di un attimo, la parola che non ci si può rimangiare e che fa crollare tutto.
Prosa fantastica , senza indecisioni, profonda ma , prima di lasciarvi un assaggio di scrittura, come al solito un brano musicale : In sottofondo avevano messo una canzone,Just like a butterfly does , che mi ricordava tempi migliori
Le indagini più massacranti le faccio sulla mia vita, che in realtà appar-tiene meno a me che ai miei pochi amici. La maggior parte dei quali, non tutti per fortuna, sono morti o invalidi: Jim Macintosh, morto; Ken Hales, idem; Foden, una pallottola nella colonna vertebrale, e Frank Ballard, para-lizzato a vita. Conosco i miei amici, sono come me; eravamo tutti intelligenti, sicuri delle nostre idee; sapevamo in che cosa credere e non avevamo mai paura. Ma adesso mi sento sull’orlo della solitudine, anche se prendo il posto dei miei morti e dei miei malati, credo. Ci sono momenti in cui mi sento solo di fronte all’odio e alla follia della nostra società, alla disperazione e alla violenza. Devo fare molta attenzione per continuare a ritirare il mio stipendio, ad abitare in Acacia Circus, a comportarmi a mo-do mio, anche solo per continuare a vivere. A ogni passo avverto il margi-ne del precipizio, e il cammino è pieno di insidie; sotto la nebbia si apre una morte senza fondo. Sono solo una comparsa per cui non veglia nessun dio. Lo Stato mi ripaga a suon di risate; i miei colleghi mi trovano assurdo. Sogno sull’altare del mio passato, circondato dai nemici.
Raymond Derek è davvero un grande scrittore, Come vivono i morti un altro splendido romanzo noir della serie Factory e il sergente senza nome uno dei più bei personaggi del genere hard boiled.
Un romanzo amaro e meraviglioso, che eccede, con le sue dolenti pagine sul tema della vecchiaia e della morte.
A Thornhill, poco fuori Londra, c’è una grande villa in decadenza. Un tempo le sue stanze risuonavano di un canto melodioso, ma ora non si ode che silenzio. Gli interni sono bui e i muri scrostati, la pioggia goccia monotona dai soffitti. L’affascinante Madame Mardy, giunta anni prima dalla Francia a seguito del marito, con la sua voce delicata e i suoi modi garbati, è scomparsa.
A14, sezione Delitti Irrisolti, il sergente viene accolto da un clima di omertà e corruzione ma il suo scopo è dare pari dignità ai morti, specie se appartengono a una realtà dimenticata, se sono ai margini , se nessuno vuole ricordarli e tanto meno piangerli.
Il suo concetto di conoscenza si riassume in due parole: angoscia e disperazione, perché di ciò è stata quasi sempre fatta la sua vita.
Questo è il grande tema che Raymond Derek traccia senza tentennamenti, senza compromessi , il grande rispetto per la dignità e la sofferenza umana . Un valore assoluto che non ammette privilegi e differenze ma solo rispetto, a qualunque livello.
Ho letto e recensito E morì ad occhi aperti , Il mio nome era Dora Suarez, tutti capolavori del genere noir.
Non so che cosa pagherei per non vedere ciò che sta dietro quello che vedo, per non sentire ciò che sta dietro quello che sento, per non sapere ciò che sta dietro quello che so, e trovare solo corruzione. Tutta la nostra agonia è un modesto prodigio destinato a essere dimenticato, come quando si spengono le luci dopo lo spettacolo e fuori incomincia a nevicare. Ma nella mia parte come posso trovare le parole per ciò che sento, se il linguaggio, come la vita, è diventato irrecuperabile e arranca dietro le macerie della natura? Pochi hanno il tempo di invecchiare guardando in faccia bellezza e terrore, e io ho cercato di farlo troppo a lungo.
Il noir come metafisica, come approccio non religioso al concetto del male e dell'egoismo che pervade lo sviluppo della civiltà occidentale, facendo brandelli nel tempo di ogni valore di rispetto e eguaglianza
Quattro pareti possono diventare d’un tratto un cuore troppo pieno per il linguaggio, uno spazio di dolore al di là della descrizione, muto ma tangibile. Le ali invisibili ma spezzate dell’amore battono sui vetri dove le parole premono con maggiore urgenza, e l’ansia che hai dentro è legata a doppio filo con ciò che non immagini. Nelle case dove entro riesco a sentire la morte, anche se è un omicidio dimenticato: il corto pugnale, il bagliore rosso di uno sparo, la tensione incontrollabile di un attimo, la parola che non ci si può rimangiare e che fa crollare tutto.
Prosa fantastica , senza indecisioni, profonda ma , prima di lasciarvi un assaggio di scrittura, come al solito un brano musicale : In sottofondo avevano messo una canzone,Just like a butterfly does , che mi ricordava tempi migliori
Le indagini più massacranti le faccio sulla mia vita, che in realtà appar-tiene meno a me che ai miei pochi amici. La maggior parte dei quali, non tutti per fortuna, sono morti o invalidi: Jim Macintosh, morto; Ken Hales, idem; Foden, una pallottola nella colonna vertebrale, e Frank Ballard, para-lizzato a vita. Conosco i miei amici, sono come me; eravamo tutti intelligenti, sicuri delle nostre idee; sapevamo in che cosa credere e non avevamo mai paura. Ma adesso mi sento sull’orlo della solitudine, anche se prendo il posto dei miei morti e dei miei malati, credo. Ci sono momenti in cui mi sento solo di fronte all’odio e alla follia della nostra società, alla disperazione e alla violenza. Devo fare molta attenzione per continuare a ritirare il mio stipendio, ad abitare in Acacia Circus, a comportarmi a mo-do mio, anche solo per continuare a vivere. A ogni passo avverto il margi-ne del precipizio, e il cammino è pieno di insidie; sotto la nebbia si apre una morte senza fondo. Sono solo una comparsa per cui non veglia nessun dio. Lo Stato mi ripaga a suon di risate; i miei colleghi mi trovano assurdo. Sogno sull’altare del mio passato, circondato dai nemici.
January 1, 2025
No one seems too interested in the assignment, or even knows for a fact that a crime has occurred, but someone who does care has just enough influence left with the Met that they have to at least send someone out to summarily investigate a potential murder in small-town Wiltshire. Naturally enough, they send a certain unnamed detective sergeant that readers of the Factory series are now quite familiar with. Out of his urban comfort zone, in an unfamiliar locale, and surrounded by a complacent constabulary who seem uninterested in crime, he digs into the case of a certain disgraced doctor and his vivacious younger wife that no one has seen for six months, and then starts wondering too why everyone in the village seems to be in the pocket of the local undertaker/property developer with his own ties to the doctor.
In many ways a departure from the Factory formula that Derek Raymond had established with the first two books in the series. The detective here is forced to leave his zone of comfort and, though he takes no real pleasure it seems in the decay and decline of London’s great urban artifice under Thatcher, he has a familiarity there and knows so intimately well the standard rogues gallery of suspects to more or less make solving crimes a matter of introspection. Here, he’s forced to do some legwork and the plot, as a consequence, appears to me more closely aligned to the genre. He gathers his clues, marshalls suspicions, sniffs leads, and cultivates his informants. The inhabitants as always are sketched out in broad caricatures. As ever, for Raymond, the dialogue is stilted and clunky. Slowly, the same preoccupations of the author emerge: the deterritorialization of the old social order and the emergence of avatars of Thatcherite sociopathic uninterest in others, and the way they seek accumulation at the cost of hollowing out any sense of remaining virtue. I had become worried that Raymond had lost his self-confidence in producing strange hermetic examples of almost anti-detective fiction. HTDL all seemed so disappointedly normal. So conventional. But I shouldn’t have worried. As the narrative rolls on, Raymond starts to draw on gothic conventions — hauntings, concealments, decay within the old shambolic estates, the symbolic orders caving away in the face of cold modernity’s progress. Not all that unexceptional in the detective genre to be sure — but atmospheric and flavourful in the best kind of way.
And then the volta. Just as the novel seems to be taking a turn to the supernatural there is a revelation towards the back end of the book that turns the novel from detective fiction to something far more metaphysical. It becomes a question of determining the difference between life and death and how inadequate humans can be at understanding the one and the other. Hard to say much more without giving away the punch of the ending, but it really worked for me to bring it into the cohesive conceptual sphere of the whole Factory series. Probably the most ‘thoughtful’ of the series so far, but also quite likely my least favourite too. I’m glad in the next novel, Raymond brings the old boy back to London for his final dash. I was Dora Suarez is often taken to be Raymond’s masterpiece and I look forward to seeing him work back on familiar terrain.
In many ways a departure from the Factory formula that Derek Raymond had established with the first two books in the series. The detective here is forced to leave his zone of comfort and, though he takes no real pleasure it seems in the decay and decline of London’s great urban artifice under Thatcher, he has a familiarity there and knows so intimately well the standard rogues gallery of suspects to more or less make solving crimes a matter of introspection. Here, he’s forced to do some legwork and the plot, as a consequence, appears to me more closely aligned to the genre. He gathers his clues, marshalls suspicions, sniffs leads, and cultivates his informants. The inhabitants as always are sketched out in broad caricatures. As ever, for Raymond, the dialogue is stilted and clunky. Slowly, the same preoccupations of the author emerge: the deterritorialization of the old social order and the emergence of avatars of Thatcherite sociopathic uninterest in others, and the way they seek accumulation at the cost of hollowing out any sense of remaining virtue. I had become worried that Raymond had lost his self-confidence in producing strange hermetic examples of almost anti-detective fiction. HTDL all seemed so disappointedly normal. So conventional. But I shouldn’t have worried. As the narrative rolls on, Raymond starts to draw on gothic conventions — hauntings, concealments, decay within the old shambolic estates, the symbolic orders caving away in the face of cold modernity’s progress. Not all that unexceptional in the detective genre to be sure — but atmospheric and flavourful in the best kind of way.
And then the volta. Just as the novel seems to be taking a turn to the supernatural there is a revelation towards the back end of the book that turns the novel from detective fiction to something far more metaphysical. It becomes a question of determining the difference between life and death and how inadequate humans can be at understanding the one and the other. Hard to say much more without giving away the punch of the ending, but it really worked for me to bring it into the cohesive conceptual sphere of the whole Factory series. Probably the most ‘thoughtful’ of the series so far, but also quite likely my least favourite too. I’m glad in the next novel, Raymond brings the old boy back to London for his final dash. I was Dora Suarez is often taken to be Raymond’s masterpiece and I look forward to seeing him work back on familiar terrain.
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