This was an exceedingly disappointing book. The stories were almost all adequately written but few of them did justice to Chandler's creation. Stuart Kaminsky and Max Allan Collins, as well as a couple of others, turn in admirable efforts. One star of my rating is for them. The other star is for Chandler's story 'The Pencil' alone.

It is fine that the authors speak in their own voice; who, after all, could truly duplicate Chandler's awesome prose? Yet they not only fail to match his skill, they fail to match his intent. Too often in this collection, Marlowe is bastardized for the sake of the author's political leanings, to advance a cause.

Marlowe was a hero in spite of himself, a champion of the lower classes, one with probable leftward leanings. (Chandler had acquired a refined dislike, or at least mistrust, of the upper crust during his formative years in England.) But as Marlowe prowled the mean streets righting wrongs, seeing that justice was done when the law would not quite do it, Chandler never allowed himself to preach. And that is what a couple of these stories do. It was a testament to Chandler's supreme skill that he could be such a strong voice for counterculture and yet ultimately fight to keep some type of moral status quo in gray circumstances.

Authors paying tribute to Dickens would not portray Tiny Tim as walking into a bank, speechifying on the plight of the poor and beating the rich old moneychangers on their heads with his crutch. And authors paying tribute to Chandler should not have had him doing many of the pettily pointed things he was doing in this book. Does anyone really think Marlowe would punch someone connected with the HUAC and sanctimoniously call him an a******? There are other similar forays into homiletic demagoguery. They are hollow, totally out of place, and out of character. Marlowe didn't operate that way, and it cheapens an icon to act as though he did.

Interestingly, and not surprisingly, those authors who fudged with the legacy the most were also those who said in their brief comments that they were the least influenced by Chandler. Why include them?

Check it out from your local library, read it, and return it; it's not worth purchasing.

In the title to this review, I borrowed Chandler's quote from his essay, "The Simple Art of Murder." It does seem appropriate, for this volume is the ultimate celebration of Raymond Chandler's genius -- simply because of the failure of most of the writers who partake herein!

The premise of this anthology is simple: Published for the centennial celebration of Raymond Chandler's birth; therefore, invite the top mystery writers of the day (1989) to submit a short story involving his ultimate literary creation, Phillip Marlowe, set between 1933 (the year in which Chandler published his first short story) and 1959 (the year of Chandler's death, and the year in which he published his last short story).

Real simple, huh? (Hah!)

Frankly, only Max Allan Collins (of 'Nate Heller' fame) comes even remotely close, in his roman-a-clef treatment of Hollywood star Thelma Todd's murder. (Note: Chandler himself would use not only certain aspects of her death -- i.e., a question of the slippers she was wearing ['The Lady In The Lake'] -- but the Santa Monica location itself [the description of Lindsey Marriott's Bay City address in 'Farewell My Lovely']. Chandler based many of his own short stories -- as well as the circumstances in at least two of his novels -- on contemporary Los Angeles history and events.)

This collection, as I mentioned previously, memorializes Raymond Chandler's success through the failures of subsequent authors. (These failures are due to many individual shortcomings, a lack of knowledge of L.A. history and development, on the one hand; or, frankly, of geography, on the other, as well as a simple lack of understanding of Chandler's concept for his protagonist -- i.e., one particular story which practically canonizes Marlowe back in his Santa Rosa hometown -- let alone his singular vision.)

A collection of very good mystery writers took part in this project. Their failure to recreate Raymond Chandler's singular vision is in no way a criticism, but rather a stirring acknowledgment of his achievement. It is also a testament as to why, again, as Chandler put it, "So many continue to assault the citadel."

Raymond Chandler and Philip Marlowe are the beginning of modern detective fiction, along with Hammett and Spade. Chandler was a preeminent stylist who wrote his way into American letters by helping to create a genre, the private eye novel. He cut his teeth writing short stories for pulps in the twenties and thirties, so it's appropriate that this collection highlights short stories. The stories were written by contemporary authors; the idea was to have them write stories with Marlowe as the main character, covering the period in which Marlowe figured in short stories that Chandler wrote. There is one story per year, with several on the back end of the collection that don't carry an exact date, and one story ("The Pencil") written by Chandler himself, late in life, to round things out.

The collection is, of course, uneven. Most of the writers more or less produce Chandler-like prose and characters, but some of the plots are distinctly unlike the great one. The collection starts off on the right foot with a Max Allan Collins story which is very good, and in the Collins mold. It's a historical mystery revolving around a thin pastiche of an old Hollywood mystery: who killed actress Thelma Todd? The rest of the stories are written by such leading lights as Robert Crais, Sara Paretsky, and Loren D. Estleman. They're rounded out by stories from such also-rans and where-are-they-nows as Benjamin Schutz, Francis Nevins Jr., Jonathan Valin, and Jeremiah Healy. I don't want to give the impression that I don't like any of the latter collection of writers (I particularly enjoyed Schutz), but they can hardly be called contemporaries, given that they haven't written in years.

I did enjoy the collection of stories, and I enjoyed the premise of the collection itself. I found the stories uneven. Some of them are very good, but some are overly cute. Two feature Chandler as a character, interacting with Marlowe. In one of those, he also butts heads with Ted Geisel (Dr. Seuss), who's only there, apparently, because he's Dr. Seuss. It's all a bit much. However, I overall enjoyed the collection, and would recommend it.

If you know have ever read a book by R.B. Parker you will find yourself in a familiar environment in this book. Parker sets himself a brave task in writing a sequel to Raymond Chandler's "The Big Sleep" and succeeds in pulling it off superbly. Parker is one of the rare modern writers who still believe that characters can have principles, and live by them even in extreme circumstances. Although this is not Parker's best work, I still recommend this book in which, in my opinion, Parker surpasses one of the legends of detective fition, Raymond Chandler.

a little background is in order (as I understand it): the heirs of Chandler approached Parker to finish the Poodle Springs manuscript, and part of the deal was that he had to write one more Marlowe story. 'Dream' is that one more. The job was almost impossible to begin with (Chandler's drinking had taken the edge off his talent by that time, and the Poodle manuscript got off on the wrong foot to boot), the Chandler fans ripped it for not being up to Chandler's prime (which even Chandler himself wasn't, towards the end), the Parker fans ripped it for not being true Spencer, and Parker felt the strain of wearing another man's shoes. So by the time he got to this one, my guess is, his heart wasn't in it. He's said he'll never do another Marlowe book. That said, it's still good to have Marlowe back, cracking wise and cruising the mean streets again. I liked it better than Chandler's "The Pencil", and better than some of the Spencer books! I just wish Parker would reconsider, and do another Marlowe book without the pressures and constraints of a contract. Marlowe, like Sherlock, is a detective who deserves to live on after his progenitor, but the return of L.A.'s hard-boiled prose-poet is, perchance, just a dream.

Robert B. Parker comes the closest to the attitude of Phillip Marlowe. Stuart Kaminsky writes his Toby Peters stories more for laughs. Andrew Bergman (The Big Kiss-Off of 1944) had flashes where he nailed the speech, but was more in keeping with Spillane overall. William Nolan (The Marble Orchard) copies some of the dialogue- and I do mean copies- in his enjoyable Chandlerian mystery. And there are others, myriad others. But none of them get it quite right.

Neither does Parker, but he comes the closest. He matches the world-weariness, the cynicism and the reluctant romanticism, finding the knight in tarnished armor that is Marlowe. Yes, he very nearly matches the attitude. But he falls short with the style.

Chandler nearly ruined literature for me, because everything about every line of his writing'- the dialogue, the descriptions, the societal observations'- is so incredibly entertaining. Nothing can meet its rarified level. So I try to make due with 'close-enoughs.' When I finish a Chandler novel, I am depressed it came to an end; when I closed Parker's Perchance To Dream, it elicited a 'That's all there is?'

In P2D, the narrative is much too straightforward. The villain was clear from the first quarter of the book and there were few mysteries to solve. No convoluted Black Mask motives, no people impersonating other people. Marlowe doesn't even get sapped until distressingly late in the story. There is only one real subplot; then that ties in with the other so they can both be too-neatly wrapped up. It becomes clear what Marlowe must do and he sets out to do it. Then, very abruptly, the novel is over. It is strenuous but not complex. There is no last minute twist because the story followed a Spenser-like plot; it more resembles the structure of the first Lethal Weapon movie than it does that of The Big Sleep.

And as 50 years have passed between the publishing of the original novel and this one, some subtlety has been forsaken. Parker shows welcome restraint given the subject matter, but Carmen's decadence seemed in Chandler's novel somehow exotic and vague. In P2D, as postmodern psychology and sensibilities are applied, it seems cold and open and dirty.

Still, there is a lot that is great in this book. The flashbacks and tips-of-the-hat to the original novel come off better than they might have. We root for Marlowe and hiss the villain, as we should. Parker has penned an abundance of juicy wisecracks and has figured out how to end his chapters in the bittersweet tone much like Chandler accomplished. And the story, despite what I said above, is furiously-paced and viscerally entertaining. It just isn't Chandler.

Perchance To Dream is a good novel; but when someone slaps the words 'Sequel to The Big Sleep' on the cover of anything it had better be blackjack-to-the-head *great*. The fault isn't really Parker's' he came close, and his was a nigh-impossible task. After all, who can be as great as Raymond Chandler?

P.S. Poodle Springs was a more accurate tribute, if a less actionful read.