In a Lonely Place

He was there for a long time. Lost in a world of swirling fog and crashing wave, a world empty of all but these things and his grief and the keening of the fog horn far at sea. Lost in a lonely place.

In a Lonely Place may be the most tense novel I’ve ever read. It’s also pretty much the perfect noir novel—or, at least, is everything I now know I want from the genre.

First, the writing is superb. The settings are immersive and atmospheric, especially the scenes on foggy, lonely beaches. While in third person, the narration is closely tied into Dix Steele’s perspective, and Hughes does an amazing job at creating his voice and examining his psyche; in fact,

all of the characters are remarkably well-drawn, with Hughes able to pull off the delicate highwire act of showing characters (especially female characters like Sylvia) through Dix’s prejudiced eyes while subtextually communicating to the reader who they really are. One of my favorite moments of character work is when,

as Dix realizes that Brub is beginning to suspect him, Dix thinks:

Poor guy. Going around in circles trying to find an invisible man. Brub must be desperate if he were suspecting his best friend. Dix felt better. In a few short sentences she has completely communicated Dix’s supreme overconfidence and self-delusion in a way that is completely believable

.

The novel is an absolute page-turner thanks to the tension that Hughes somehow maintains in every scene. There are so many pieces to the puzzle that are hinted at, so many small questions that are raised, that gradually fall into place in a very satisfying way. In fact, almost no violence actually plays out on the page—most of it is implied, taking place in the quiet spaces between chapters, which was a fantastic choice that gives the novel a specific, almost dreamlike, feeling. (I also appreciated that it meant the novel isn’t graphic.)

I was truly unsure of how the novel would end. It’s one of those stories that could have gone a number of different ways (and some of them could have easily ruined the book). Luckily, Hughes definitely stuck the landing, and thematically

I found it incredibly satisfying that Dix was taken down by Sylvia, in a twist that Megan Abbott points out is decidedly feminist

.

While reading, I couldn’t help but draw parallels with

The Maltese Falcon, a somehow much more famous novel that pales in comparison. The main characters have much in common—sexist, overconfident alcoholics constantly surrounded by beautiful women and seemingly immune from failure—but Hammett treats his Sam Spade as an aspirational fantasy while Hughes sees her Dix Steele for what he is and condemns him for it. Hammett’s writing is almost crude and seems deliberately obtuse, while Hughes’s is elegant and layered with intentional subtext. Hammett’s writing and characters show no emotion, while Hughes’s are driven by and infused with it at every step of the way. Hammett was writing about a decade before Hughes, so maybe he did more to shape the genre than she—but by every other metric Hughes is the superior writer.

And, for what it’s worth, the afterword by Megan Abbott gets 5 stars, too. Her observations may not be especially profound, but I think she got the book right (which is definitely not the case for every afterword I’ve read) and her writing style was delightful.

I am definitely adding Dorothy B. Hughes to my list of authors to continue with.

Some favorite passages:

It was good standing there on the promontory overlooking the evening sea, the fog lifting itself like gauzy veils to touch his face. There was something in it akin to flying; the sense of being lifted high above crawling earth, of being a part of the wildness of air. Something too of being closed within an unknown and strange world of mist and cloud and wind.

To hell with happiness. More important was excitement and power and the hot stir of lust. Those made you forget.

The only exciting thing that had ever happened to her was to be raped and murdered. Even then she’d only been subbing for someone else.

Risks he took; mistakes he didn’t make.

The spice of eucalyptus scented the darkness.

The wind caught at them as they left the car and descended to the beach. The wind and the deep sand pushed at them but they struggled on, down to the water’s edge. Waves were frost on the dark churning waters. Stars pricked through the curved sky. The rhythm pulsed, the crash and the slurring swish repeated endlessly, the smell of the sea was sharp. Spindrift salted their lips.

To sleep, perchance to dream and dreaming wake . . . To sleep and to wake. To sleep in peace, without the red evil of dreaming. To wake without need to struggle through fog to reach the sunlight. To find sleep good and waking more good. It was the ringing phone that woke him. He reached for it and he felt her stir beside him.

Although I honestly don’t think he ever does escape. He has to live with himself. He’s caught there in that lonely place. And when he sees he can’t get away—” Brub shrugged. “Maybe suicide, or the nut house—I don’t know. But I don’t think there’s any escape.”

Fear wasn’t a jagged split of light cleaving you; fear wasn’t a cold fist in your entrails; fear wasn’t something you could face and demolish with your arrogance. Fear was the fog, creeping about you, winding its tendrils about you, seeping into your pores and flesh and bone. Fear was a girl whispering a word over and again, a small word you refused to hear although the whisper was a scream in your ears, a dreadful scream you could never forget.

The swish of the waves whispering if . . . if . . . if . . .

Liquor is such a nice substitute for facing adult life.

There wasn’t any girl worth getting upset over. They were all alike, cheats, liars, whores. Even the pious ones were only waiting for a chance to cheat and lie and whore. He’d proved it, he’d proved it over and again. There wasn’t a decent one among them. There’d only been one decent one and she was dead.

The fog was cool and sweet as he drifted through it. Into the park, the benches, the trees assuming shape as he neared them. He walked to the stone balustrade. He could hear the boom of the breakers far below, he could smell the sea smell in the fog. There was no visibility, save for the yellow pools of fog light on the road below, and the suggested skyline of the beach houses. There was a soft fog-hung silence, broken only by the thump of the water and the far-off cry of the fog horn.

There was then a moment when neither man spoke, when they remained unmoving, looking each into the other’s face. A moment when each knew the other for what he was, the hunter and the hunted.