Red Wind

Today is Raymond Chandler's birthday, so I thought I'd post the only bit of his writing that I've known since I was child. (Thank you, Mr. Grant.)

Those hot dry winds that come down through the mountain passes and curl your hair and make your nerves jump and your skin itch. On nights like that every booze party ends in a fight. Meek little wives feel the edge of the carving knife and study their husbands' necks. Anything can happen.

From Red Wind, which I really must read in its entirety some day.