She stood squarely in front of him in a deliberately ugly posture, one hip out, her breasts thrust forward under the white shirt, and at the same time sharp and tender. She didn’t seem to be drunk, but there was a hot moist glitter in her eyes. Her eyes were large and violet, and should have been beautiful. With dark circles under them, and heavy eye-shadow on the upper lids, they were like two spreading bruises. (6)
I do find amusing many of Macdonald’s descriptions of breasts and their emotional ways as if they’re somehow independent of their owners. I’m reading Lanark by Alasdair Grey and funnily enough, he sees breasts in the same way.
Still, I love Macdonald’s language, it is the texture of noir itself at its best. I’ll miss not having a novel sitting here for me to read on the weekend.
The Listening Ear was full of dark blue light and light blue music.
The description of a beat night club is brilliant, as is the poet as is the plot itself with yet another psychological twist showing the terrible things that money does to families (but also, what the lack of it can do).
For one more quote, you can go here.