84 Quotes About Hard-boiled

She told me to answer yes or no, and to quit wasting her time. I told her I'd place it under my consideration, and would get back to her just as soon as humanly possible. That's when I made the mistake of mentioning my ex-girlfriend. I almost always gag whenever I talk about my ex. Sometimes that gagging leads to puking. Women don't like it when a man pukes on them. That's one thing I have learned about women.

They went along a balcony that looked down over the dining room and the dance floor. The lisp of hot jazz came up to them from the lithe, swaying bodies of a high-yaller band. With the lisp of jazz came the smell of food and cigarette smoke and perspiration. The balcony was high and the scene down below had a patterned look, like an overhead camera shot. (Nevada Gas)

From the way her buttocks looked under the black silk dress, I knew she'd be good in bed. The silk was tight and under it the muscles worked slow and easy. I saw weight there, and control, and, brother, those are things I like in a woman.

He was a guy who talked with commas, like a heavy novel. Over the phone anyway.

The coffee shop smell was strong enough to build a garage on.

I've always thought hard-boiled detective novels an American art form. At their best, they're more than who-dun-its or thrillers, they're vehicles for a writer's observations about culture, politics, philosophy, music, history and a time or a place. Or life, it’s ownself. When you read James Ellroy, Dashiell Hammett or James Lee Burke, their stories are always about far more than good guys chasing bad guys. That’s the kind of book I wanted to write. Still do.

When you write, you start with what you know and build from there. I knew a little something about the border, Texas and Mexico from my journalism days. Knew some cops and redneck outlaws, too. And I knew I wanted to write a noirish detective novel. So I started with that and went from there. Out popped Ed Earl Burch, Carla Sue Cantrell and THE LAST SECOND CHANCE: An Ed Earl Burch Novel.

The room buzzes around us but we’re fixed on each other, engaged in a battle of who can deprecate me more. She obviously doesn’t believe such a man can exist and keeps at it, prodding and goading me like a fisherman harpooning an already beached whale.

You don’t trust money to a junkie. You don’t trust money to anyone with hard needs.