Familiale by Jacques Prévert - une réponse

This was in response to my French 101 professor's assignment, "Écrivez une version de ce poème (Familiale) qui n’en fait pas satire, qui est une version sérieuse." Familiale is a poem by Jacques Prévert. Here is my childish effort. Please to enjoy:

 

“La guerre, la guerre,” disent la mère et le père
Le fils dit, “Je ne veux pas y aller.”
“Vous devez, vous devez,” disent la mère et le père
Le fils murmure doucement, “Ouais.”

“Notre fils est en guerre,” disent la mère et le père

Le fils dit, “Je vais bien.”
“Il va bien, il va bien,” disent la mère et le père
Le fils ne dit rien

“Notre fils est parti,” disent la mère et le père

Le fils ne parle plus
Ils pleurent pour lui, la mère et le père
La guerre, la guerre c’est tout.

Spenser: Far Higher

I voiced my displeasure with Robert B. Parker’s Early Autumn, moaning, “where’s the blood” and “gimme some murder!” My problem was not with the novel itself – I believe it to be beautifully written – but that it is much more a coming of age story than a crime novel. Early Autumn is about a relationship tested and a boy learning life lessons, and its pages provide a portrait of the detective I believe to be the most ethical of the detectives we have read: Spenser. I define ethics as, simply, the Golden Rule: treat other people as you would like to be treated. At first blush, perhaps too simple to use in this essay, and indeed the golden rule casts a wide net. The golden rule is, however, a way of living, and it is the way each detective moves through life –albeit a fictional life – that will be examined here. It occurs to me that in order to develop a list of suspects, police – or in this case, the detective –must prove motive. In the same way, I will determine the motivation of the detectives – why they behave the way they do – and conclude that Spenser is indeed far higher than the rest. I will then examine how Parker broadcasts the importance of leading an ethical life through Spenser’s actions.

What motivates the other detectives, then? Block’s Matthew Scudder is a man forever atoning for his sin. He lights candles at the local Catholic church: “And, of course, one for Estrellita Rivera, who would never get to be eight” (The Sins of the Fathers, 19). Scudder does good because he did bad, not because doing good is the right thing to do. McBain’s Andy Parker is motivated by racism. We discussed at length in class that Andy is unaware of his racism. I disagree, but more to the point: being unaware is inexcusable. I highly doubt that after years on the force in that particular precinct, that Andy does not understand how his attitude and words can be so upsetting, harmful, and dangerous. Perhaps because I listened to the audio version of the book, I paid keener attention to the inflection of Andy’s voice each time he was accused of saying something racist, and Andy was not believable. “Hell, you know me better than that. I don’t care if a guy’s Puerto Rican or Chinese,” Andy says. Hernandez replies with a deadpan, “Sure” (See Them Die, 84). Hernandez agrees with me. Hammett’s Sam Spade may have his own code, but his motivation is revenge –revenge for his murdered partner. Spade triumphantly tells Brigid, “You killed Miles and you’re going over for it” (The Maltese Falcon, 213). Hammett’s Continental Op wants to see the guilty hang. His motivation is simple bloodlust. He solves each crime and the criminal is turned in, but at the end of nearly every story he nearly salivates as he declares their fates. “With her assistance it was no trick at all to gather up the rest of the evidence we needed to hang him (“The Tenth Clew,” 38). “You’re going to Seattle, Ed, to hang for Ashcraft’s suicide” (“The Golden Horseshoe,” 81). “The Chinese went to the gallows” (“The House in Turk Street,” 108). “They hanged him” (“The Farewell Murder,” 287). Placing Spenser upon a pedestal and declaring him far higher than the rest is almost unfair. At great personal cost – monetary, and his relationship with Susan – Parker takes on a summertime chore to raise, for all intents and purposes, an orphan. What a guy. Parker paints Spenser as a hero, but he is no Christ-like figure or superhero – he is just a man. Spenser’s motivation, shown time and again, is living by and passing on the assets of the golden rule.

I attempted to determine at what moment Spenser decides he must help Paul – I mean, reallyhelp the boy. Paul initially mistrusts Spenser. “What do you care? It’s not your business. Whyn’t you leave me alone?” “Because right now you’re in my keeping and I’m trying to decide what’s best to do with you” (26). Spenser knows that all the boy needs is guidance, and without it, he will remain adrift. For example, Paul hangs on the periphery of every conversation he comes near. This behavior resonates with me, recognized as a habit of an only child. As much as a teenager tries to act cool and aloof, those ears are open, not wanting to miss a thing: Paul overhears Spenser’s confrontation with Mel and Elaine (20-24); Paul sits right in the room “watching television” as his mom pawns him off in order to achieve a private evening (31-34); Paul witnesses Harold and Buddy bullying their way in (71-74). Just afterward, Spenser confesses that he feels sorry for Paul, and that is why he agrees to, in essence, babysit. I do not think Spenser has yet decided to take the boy on as a project, though, I think that comes later, and I think it is on page 62:“Your father ever take care of you?” Spenser asks. Paul replies, “No.” The reader is told little to nothing of Spenser’s relationship with his own father, but to my mind it is that simple exchange that threads the needle for Spenser. Paul must be taught to be, in Spenser’s word, “autonomous” (99).

Building a house is such a strong symbol in and of itself in the importance of living an ethical life. The Christian tradition would invoke the parable of the wise and foolish builders, and the importance of having a strong foundation. Of the many things Spenser knows he can teach Paul, that foundation is by far the most important. Though the symbolic house building is a lovely image, Parker’s lessons are spelled out beautifully on their own in simple life lessons. “A way of living better is to make the decisions you need to make based on what you can control”(114). Spenser and Paul have a long discussion about gun violence and his personal rules – Paul speaks first: “How come you didn’t shoot them?” “I didn’t need to” (75). “Why don’t you?” “Something to do with the sanctity of life. That kind of stuff” (76). It is Spenser’s summation and final conclusion that are the most telling: “You make rules for yourself and know that you’ll have to break them because they won’t always work” (76). Spenser gently guides Paul toward ethical action: “I also think it’s bad form to talk about your mother that way to a stranger.” “Why?” “It’s just not done” (28). Later, Spenser does so again: “How come you wouldn’t let her pay for it?” “It didn’t seem the right thing to do” (35). “I still don’t see why you want to pay for my dinner.” “I’m not sure. It has to do with propriety. Appropriateness. Doing things right”(37). Spenser explains to Susan, “The kid’s never been taught how to act. He doesn’t know anything. He’s got no pride. He’s got nothing he’s good at. He’s got nothing but the tube.” “I’ll teach him what I know. I know how to do carpentry. I know how to cook. I know how to punch. I know how to act” (98). Spenser leads by example, though, even when Paul is not there to witness. “Do you think [Paul would] think less of me than he does now?” Patty asks. “No. He’d think less of me” (67), Spenser replies. He continues, “I’m committed to another woman. I’m committed to protecting your son. Screwing his mom, pleasant as that would be, is not productive” (69).

Ethical living, according to Parker, stems from honesty. Right from the start, Spenser never lies to Paul. He is brutally honest and tells the boy what he needs to hear, no matter how hard it might be. At the cabin, Spenser gets right to the heart of the matter: “Your parents are no help to you. If anything, they hurt. You can’t depend on them. They got you to where you are. They won’t get better. You have to” (123). When Spenser tells Paul he plans to blackmail his parents, he says,“But remember, you probably will care. It probably will hurt. It’s okay for it to hurt. It’s very sensible that it should hurt” (160). Spenser knows that holding back the truth would only do Paul a disservice, and teaches Paul that it is literally bad to pull your punches, all the while delicately teaching him that honesty is the best policy.

In “The Simple Art of Murder,” Raymond Chandler claims a detective must be “the best man in his world and a good enough man for any world.” I would take Spenser in my world any day, and am thankful that Robert B. Parker was in my world for a time, even though I was not aware of him. Paul asks Spenser if Hawk is his friend. “He’s not good. But he’s a good man. You know the difference? You will. It’s a difference I’m going to help you learn” (108). With Early Autumn, Parker left a legacy by mapping out instructions for leading an ethical life. Spenser teaches Paul, and Parker teaches us, simply and effectively.

A Picture Speaks Volumes in Ed Brubaker’s Criminal, Volume One: Coward

Ed Brubaker’s Criminal, Volume One: Coward echoes several of the books we have read this term: Parker’s Early Autumn, Block’s Sins of the Fathers, and especially Macdonald’s The Goodbye Look. Brubaker tackles several themes, but the one I choose to focus on is that of fathers and sons. Fathers teach their sons many things; bravery among them. Our “hero” Leo Patterson is repeatedly accused of being a coward, and even accuses himself. If true, where did the pattern originate, and why do others continue to recognize it? The panel showing Leo on his subway ride home after his initial chat with Seymour and Jeff at the museum is the most significant thematically because it encapsulates his present and his past by invoking both memories of his father and visions of his future self.

Memory is a tricky business, and Leo Patterson is a man with a lot on his mind. Throughout the graphic novel, his thought bubbles more than likely tally a larger word count than his speech bubbles, if one were to count them. The reader has been given Leo’s back-story and he confesses, “I’m scared of ending up like my father.” As he rides the subway train, he thinks about the proposition presented to him by his former crony Seymour and crooked cop Jeff as he stares off into the cityscape. He recalls what corrupt police have done to his friends and family, and as he stares at his own face, he remembers the countless widows and orphans made manifest by street violence. Leo knows that violent world, and he knows it because he was brought into it by his own father. Sure, Leo’s dad went to jail for him and died there for him, but at what cost to his son, in the end? Leo is left fatherless, as Greta’s daughter Angie is, and fatherless by the same root cause. Sure, he has the addled junkie Ivan, but Leo has become more of a father to him than Ivan ever was in return. Leo says he can “never forget,” and so that paternal memory nags at him in empty moments like a subway ride.
Thoughts of memory lead to thoughts of present, and of future. Even if the thought bubble were not there, the panel would speak. Leo is a man looking at his own reflection: a moment of reflection. Buildings, streets and their garbage whizz by, yet there is his image, strong and clear, reflected in plexiglass. I am no artist, so I cannot determine if those lines are scratches on the subway window or representations of the outside world passing by. I believe that they tie in beautifully with the words in the panel, be they scratches or lines: they are scars. We are given Leo’s thoughts: “Those wounds were scars that’d be easier to hide, but they were scars all the same.” Brubaker – through Leo – is absolutely correct. Leo sees his reflection, and he can see both actual scars – some from battle and some from age – as well as deeply embedded internal scars.
Travelling via subway, it should not be forgotten that there is one sense that could be missed altogether, especially when reading a book, and that is sound. Leo is having a moment of reflection, but certainly not silent reflection. Blocking out subway noise – musicians, lunatic homeless, screaming children, fervent preaching – is not an easy task, and I daresay Leo has no intention of trying. Entirely shutting out the noisy world leads to the type of silent contemplation that could lead to deep depression – and an uncovering of past internal scars – and Leo wants no part of that. He is thinking of his past, and he is thinking of his dad, and he does not want to become his dad. It could be imagined that the one noise that supersedes all is the train on the tracks – that clack-clack-clack. I imagine that repetitive trance-inducing auditory pattern creating a mantra in his head: I won’t be like him, I won’t be like him, I won’t be like him… Leo tells Greta that “Violence just…it’s got a ripple effect. You know that. And I try not to cause any ripples.” Ripples echo outward both visually and acoustically, and Leo gets a dose of both in the reflection of his image.
The difficulty in looking at oneself – and I mean really looking at oneself in a literal sense, i.e., the window reflection – is that what one sees is a representation; in actuality, what is seen is a backwards image. There is no way to see oneself as others do. I realize the panel I chose is incredibly simple, but I honestly think it speaks volumes about the entire graphic novel. In the end, the story is not about pickpockets, shootouts and drug deals. When Leo needs a hideout, he heads to his ancestral homestead – the place where past, present and future meld. Beyond the blood, violence, and death is a man with a history. In the end, the past does invoke the future – the violence he is capable of – or, as Leo puts, it, “of what’s inside of me.” His redemption complete – saving young Angie and returning the heroin – Leo and his family farm both end as ashes blowing past the window of a rapid subway train.

Cain Explores the Malleability of Human Nature in Double Indemnity

Our professor has strongly cautioned us not to use “you” in writing our papers. I can now see why, after reading James M. Cain’s Double Indemnity. An author writing, “You’ve read in the papers” (3), or, “I think I told you about Norton and Keyes” (56), points a finger directly at the reader. There but for the grace of god goes…you. Cain shows us a path we could all take – what Jeff Lindsay’s Dexter terms his “dark passenger.” If nothing has been learned from the novels we have read so far, we have certainly learned there is a seedy underbelly beneath any ray of sunshine on these mean streets. You – even you – could plan and commit a murder. Huff is just a guy doing his job, and by the end of a routine evening decides to murder so that he can have a woman and help her spend the insurance money. It is that split-second decision-making that Cain shows us is critical. By manipulating both his characters and his readers, Cain shows the balance of the nature of good and evil on a razor’s edge.

P. T. Barnum is credited with coining the phrase, “there’s a sucker born every minute,” and the sentiment continues to prove right with each passing generation. Given the right circumstance, anyone can be duped. Cain gives us an immediate instance with Huff’s entrance into the Nirdlinger home. “To move this stuff, you’ve got to get in” (4), Huff explains, and charms his way past the maid with very little effort. Another manipulation, and done so easily, Huff cons Nirdlinger with a ruse involving policy rates in order to cook the books back at the office. “When you offer a man about twenty bucks more than he thought he had when you came in, he wouldn’t ask too many questions about why you offer it to him” (32). Insurance claims adjustor Keyes explains his own cautious nature in this way: “I don’t often like somebody. At my trade, you can’t afford to. The whole human race looks – a little bit crooked” (104). Keyes is right to be wary, though even he is taken by the larger con and is misled along the way by Huff. The one character who believes so strongly not to trust other people, even his instinct – his nature – is malleable enough that even he is played for a fool.
By the end of the novel, we know that Huff has recounted all details as part of his confession. He not only confesses the crime, but meticulously explains his brilliant cover-up. The reader cannot help but notice the abundant effort taken in order to create the perfect crime, though Huff assured us at the start, “there won’t be any slips” (18). Huff creates his alibi with an eyewitness – his Filipino houseboy – as well as a long series of phone calls that concrete him at his home on the night of the murder. “[Joe Pete, the security guard] had to keep a log, and enter everything he did, not only by date, but also by time” (41). Even seeing a show a day early and getting the program evening-of, taking every possibility into account, is amazingly calculated. (As an aside, I have my doubts that any folded theater program could slow a bullet, but I will admit I have never tried.) Each step in the murder plot is thoughtfully explained away by concealed evidence and misplaced clues – a narrow-ledged balance beam of good and evil.

Cain even plays fast and loose with the reader’s affections toward his characters. Take Huff, for example. We see him fall for Phyllis right out of the gate, and the very next thing Cain does is has Keyes give him an attaboy: “If other departments of this company would show half of the sense that you show…” (8). Maybe Huff is a good guy, and maybe he can avoid that calculating spider, Phyllis. Huff continues his fall, though, and when he decides to murder Nirdlinger, Phyllis even gives him an out: “I don’t love [Nirdlinger], but he’s never done anything to me” (18). Right there, Huff could walk away, no harm done – except adultery – a crime to be dealt with by another court entirely. When discussing their plans for murder, Phyllis explains, “[Nirdlinger]’s not happy. He’ll be better off – dead” (18). Murder becomes easier if the murder’s conscience can be eased knowing that the victim is actually being done a favor. After all the calculating and cover-up, Cain plays with our need for redemption by feeding our gullibility. The perfect murder has been accomplished with its bow neatly tied, and Huff wins us back again by confessing. “I couldn’t think of anything but Lola, a lot of cops around her, maybe beating her up, trying to make her spill something that she knew no more about than the man in the moon” (101). Huff’s downfall leads to Lola’s redemption: his evil, now confessed, becomes her salvation. A bit wobbly on that razor’s edge balance-beam, but that careful balance leads to a strong dismount: you, the reader, have been duped, too.

One law of thermodynamics states that the universe tends toward entropy, or simply: disorder. Taken to an extreme, it could follow that human nature tends toward evil, if part of evil’s definition is disorder. Problem is: I don’t buy it; I think human nature tends toward good. If I were younger, this paper would have been easier to write, as I find it more and more difficult to declare anything as cut and dried, definitively one way or the other. What I think does not matter, though; the point is what Cain shows us, which is how fragile that good/evil tipping point can be and how those suckers born every minute can be sucked in.

The Past is Ever-Present in Ross Macdonald’s The Goodbye Look

What does Ross Macdonald say about the relationships between parents and children?

The Past is Ever-Present in Ross Macdonald’s The Goodbye Look

The intricacies of a family dynamic can be simply fascinating. Ross Macdonald explores a few recognizable intricacies in his novel The Goodbye Look, as multi-generational tales weave throughout what begins as a simple theft investigation. A self-identified amateur counselor (17-18), Macdonald’s detective Lew Archer encounters more than he bargains for with each new threshold he crosses. Archer is more of an observer than a detector, and he observes each family with an overlying assumption about all families. Children, no matter what age, remain children in the eyes of their parents. Macdonald shows the reader that parents and children share both a reciprocal blessing and curse: they provide a mirror image, they taunt, and they disappoint.

Nick, son of wealthy Irene and Larry Chalmers, should want for nothing, yet he is troubled. Nick’s parents cannot help but feel at fault, and turn a mirror on themselves to look for clues. Irene Chalmers admits that she and her husband have spent “thousands of dollars” (13) on their disappearing son over the years, between Pinkerton sleuths and psychiatry. And why not: he is their precious boy. Larry knows what it is to love a son and be loved by a dad. Irene says that her husband “still worships the ground his father walked on” (10) and “used to read [his war correspondence letters] aloud to Nick.” Larry sees much of his own personality in Nick, noting in one instance, “I suppose he got it by osmosis from me” (58). Lawyer John Truttwell suggests a historical and reciprocal mirror: “I think [Nick] idolizes his father, but feels he can’t measure up. Which is exactly how Larry Chambers felt about his own father, the Judge” (60). In the case of the Chalmers family, Macdonald shows us that the family mirror is more of a reflecting pool, with ripples that echo throughout.

Mirrors can reflect and repeat other behaviors, such as cruelty – the urge to taunt. Kids can be so cruel, as the saying goes, but so can parents. Not to pile on the aphorism, but, “you always hurt the one you love” is cliché for a reason. Macdonald especially displays this behavior in the mother-daughter relationship of Jean and Louise. The reader doesn’t need to see this family confrontation to recognize it; nearly two pages of dialogue are simply overheard as the women hiss and spit their words. “You better take my advice” (72), Louise cautions, and, “You’ve been drinking again, haven’t you?” (73), flies accusingly from her lips. Louise warns, “‘Don’t think you’re coming back to live with me,’ to which Jean snaps, ‘I wouldn’t stay if you begged me on your knees’” (73). Interestingly, not a half-page later, Jean herself begs to stay. Button-pushing is a generational inheritance. It is no coincidence that Jean refers to her missing father as “Daddy” throughout, though she’s nearly 40 years old. The childlike “Daddy” invokes a protector – a noble man cherished by his brood. “I’m going to find my Daddy” (75), she says, knowing it must drive her mother crazy. Giving the man who abandoned his family such a precious title is a deep cut, indeed. Children and parents have reciprocal ability to taunt, and it cuts both ways.

Macdonald provides a good amount of family disappointment and regret for every family unit in the novel. After her daughter’s death, Louise reflects “Poor Jean and I could never get along,” followed closely by “Jean should have listened to me” (134). Though Irene claims, “It doesn’t show but [John is] terribly emotional, especially where Nick is concerned” (64), John Chalmers later cautions his suicidal son, “You’ve got to act like a man” (57). Disappointment even purposefully rears its head, as in Betty’s admission that she intends to marry Nick “whether my father wants me to or not. I’d naturally prefer to have his approval” (23). A family unit is just that – a unit – as pointed out by John Chalmers: “I talked about our need to stick together” (91). Notice the word chosen is need, not want. That need creates the ties that bind, and that need can bring inevitable disappointment.

Macdonald weaves webs of family dysfunction throughout The Goodbye Look, and the reader familiarly nods. Personally, I certainly do. I am an only child, and there are many family dynamics I will never understand. I will never know a sibling, have to share a room, or even a piece of gum. To my now 80-year-old mother I will always be both her oldest and only, and I will always be her baby. I am a grown woman, yet she worries for my safety, offers to pay for flights home, and would speak to me daily by phone if I allowed it. She drives me nuts, and I return the favor – less so now with age. Macdonald gives us a glimpse of families which we may recognize or not, but families just the same. So it goes with all parent-child relationships: we are theirs and they are ours – scars and all – for better or for worse.

Recognizing a Bit of Ourselves in the “Little Fat Detective Whose Name I Don’t Know”

What are 2 or 3 significant personality changes Dashiell Hammett makes to the character of the detective as portrayed by Edgar Allan Poe & Sir Arthur Conan Doyle?

Recognizing a Bit of Ourselves in the “Little Fat Detective Whose Name I Don’t Know”

What was that man’s name…that fellow who solved the case? Does it matter? It does not. Poe and Doyle name their detectives, yet Hammett’s Continental Op remains nameless. His name is not important – it is his actions that speak for him, and to us. Poe’s Dupin and Doyle’s Holmes are impartial, confident and precise. Robotic impartiality, utter confidence and mechanical precision are seemingly godlike qualities. Traits such as those might be admirable and necessary in a detective, but where’s the humanity? Enter Hammett’s Continental Op. This fellow seeks sensation and delivers humor with a sarcastic deadpan. He is sloppy at times and always in the line of fire – often literally. He is the human gumshoe, the fellow who walks amongst us, doing his job so that we might live more safely on these mean streets. The Op appeals to the reader on a more human level than Dupin and Holmes via his wit, his wits, and his fists. Hammett’s Op brings more human qualities to the role of the detective.

The Continental Op is downright funny. He’s sarcastic, self-depricating, and delivers an “in” joke to the reader with a very dry, deadpan wit. In “The Girl With the Silver Eyes,” in response to Pangburn’s description of Jeanne simply as the most beautiful woman in the world, he quips, “That would look nice on a reward circular.” A delicious zinger, yet shared only with the reader, not aloud. The Op is genuinely surprised as the crooks exit “The House in Turk Street,” and tells us, “According to the best dramatic rules, these folks should have made sarcastic speeches to me before they left, but they didn’t.” He gives us the information we need, along with a little light humor. Thanks for that, Op. We readers appreciate the humanness, shown in contrast to Doyle, for example, whose Holmes can be humorous, but not quite human.

While Dupin and Holmes may have their machinations detailed over several explanatory pages, Hammett’s Op talks us through the story. The Op tells it like it is, with no frills. He uses his wits – his experience, his gut – to follow the clues and solve the crime. He’s a thinker, certainly. The Op’s thinking is done on-the-job – recognizable for modern-day, hurried and busy readers. He thinks as he smokes, drives, eats, as he’s tied up, and even while he’s floating in San Francisco Bay. He has been doing his job a number of years and is proud of his tenure. He knows not to take Pangburn in “The Girl With the Silver Eyes” at face-value, and asks him for an endorsement or character witness. Like Dupin and Doyle, the Op’s instinct is to trust no one, for example Inés in “The Whosis Kid,” where he acknowledges, “I expected to disbelieve everything she said.” But our more human Op has quite a handful with Inés – literally cat-like on his lap. Dupin and Holmes had to deal with no such temptation. Quite a human challenge to overcome: being teased and cajoled while attempting to solve crime. Interrupted by the arrival of Billie, our Op, nearly at wit’s end, figures that he can play the jealousy card and get Billie to throw a punch. Physical violence allows the Op’s wits to outmatch even the strongest opponent.

In “The Whosis Kid,” the Op reminds us that, “The idea in this detective business is to catch crooks, not to put on heroics.” A fine sentiment, yet no sooner are the words out of his mouth than he’s struggling for control of a gun. Our Op craves action and seeks sensation in such a human way. Granted, Doyle placed Holmes and Watson in harm’s way, but our Op literally puts his body on the line, ass over teakettle, time and time again. Is it because he’s working for the Agency, or because that’s the kind of guy he is? There is an urge, in some of us, to push ourselves to the limit. The Op has that urge – call it testosterone – that drive that pushes him forward, getting into precarious situations.

 

The reader can admire or even be in awe of Dupin and Holmes, but does not necessarily want to be their friend. Our Op, on the other hand, would make a most enjoyable drinking buddy or guest at a weekend barbeque. He’s the fellow who will tell a fantastic story, and will keep an audience in rapt attention. Hammett knows that the reader does not need a robotic lecture. A reader wants to be spoken to, not spoken at. A more modern reader doesn’t need to be told tales, they want to have an experience. It might be thought that those who love to read are homebodies incapable of the need for action, but that’s far from true. Detectives like our Op bring us closer to the action every human craves. We need someone to trust – someone who will do the right thing and right wrongs. Hammett’s Op, as he says himself, is “constructed mostly of human ingredients.” By giving the Op those human characteristics – sarcasm, intuition, and violence – Hammett presents, for our approval, a Man – the Op – who could be any one of us, or at least a part of every one of us.