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Becall

Posted 5/27/2016 9:54pm by Eugene Wyatt.

This evening I happened to be watching an example of Film Noirspecifically The Big Sleep, adapted as a screenplay from the Raymond Chandler novel by William Faulkner et al, starring Humphrey Bogart as Marlowe and Lauren Bacall as Vivian, directed by Howard Hawks, 1946. Chandler, through his characters Marlowe and Vivian, mentions Marcel Proust.

The screenplay, The Big Sleep,

Vivian : So you do get up, I was beginning to think you worked in bed like Marcel Proust.

Marlowe : Who’s he ?

Vivian : You wouldn’t know him, a French writer.

Marlowe : Come into my boudoir.

The novel, The Big Sleep by Raymond Chandler 1939, 

Vivian « Well, you do get up »

Wrinkling her nose at the faded red settee, the two odd semi-easy chairs, the net curtains that needed laundering and the boy’s size library table with the venerable magazines on it to give the place a professional touch.

Vivian « I was beginning to think perhaps you worked in bed, like Marcel Proust. »

Marlowe « Who’s he ? »

I put a cigarette in my mouth and stared at her. She looked a little pale and strained, but she looked like a girl who could function under a strain.

Vivian « A French writer, a connoisseur in degenerates. You wouldn’t know him. »

Marlowe « Tut, tut, come into my boudoir. »

Posted 8/14/2014 4:11pm by Eugene Wyatt.

I found most of this on Le fou de Proust.

The Big Sleep, adapted from the Raymond Chandler novel by William Faulkner et al, starring Humphrey Bogart as Marlowe and Lauren Bacall as Vivian, directed by Howard Hawks, 1946,

Vivian : So you do get up, I was beginning to think you worked in bed like Marcel Proust.

Marlowe : Who’s he ?

Vivian : You wouldn’t know him, a French writer.

Marlowe : Come into my boudoir.

~

 The Big Sleep by Raymond Chandler 1939, 

« Well, you do get up », she said, wrinkling her nose at the faded red settee, the two odd semi-easy chairs, the net curtains that needed laundering and the boy’s size library table with the venerable magazines on it to give the place a professional touch. « I was beginning to think perhaps you worked in bed, like Marcel Proust. »

« Who’s he ? » I put a cigarette in my mouth and stared at her. She looked a little pale and strained, but she looked like a girl who could function under a strain. « A French writer, a connoisseur in degenerates. You wouldn’t know him. »

« Tut, tut, » I said. « Come into my boudoir. »