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dadoodoflow's review
dark
mysterious
reflective
sad
tense
medium-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? Character
- Strong character development? It's complicated
- Loveable characters? It's complicated
- Diverse cast of characters? No
- Flaws of characters a main focus? Yes
3.75
As people embrace/embody the failures of society and the culture’s antennae, the artists, poets, people who care, are flayed closer and closer to the bone what is left but to find a piece of light, even if you have to court death to make it shine. More of a fuck you to Thatcher than any polemic could achieve just by documenting the armor we need to survive her dream.
jakewritesbooks's review against another edition
4.0
(4.5) I often find books that attempt to double as sociological tourism too didactic, too beholden to their atmosphere and the writer's persuasion. There are points to be made in an op-ed, whereas I just want to read a good mystery story. However, while the central mystery was interesting here, this book functions as a hellish descent into Margaret Thatcher's England. It might have rated 5-stars but I didn't like one of the plot points in the back half, can't say what without giving it away. Still, it's surprisingly philosophical about its time and place whilst being critical of its existence. It buoyed the unnamed detective from drowning in the same cynicism that many detectives/investigators/PIs happily swim in by giving him a purpose beyond solving the murder for the sake of. I will have to read the rest of this series.
loki_the_cat's review against another edition
dark
mysterious
slow-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? Plot
- Loveable characters? No
aksel_dadswell's review against another edition
4.0
I'd heard nothing but glowing praise for this 80's London-set noir (and the first in Raymond's Factory series), and it more than lived up to the hype. This is an incredibly bleak, muted, existential exploration of the dark, dirty characters inhabiting the book's grimy Thatcherite(?) London setting, laced with a heavy marbling of deadpan, black-as-pitch humour. So, bleak, dark, dirty, grimy, black - lots of pleasant happy adjectives that don't make me feel like a boiling hot shower afterwards. But even if I didn't have a fetish for this kind of grim and unrelenting narrative, it's so beautifully written that Raymond's prose elevates it to something much more than it could have been without the slippery poetic language. I cannot wait to sink into the rest of the books in this delicious series.
erinmully's review against another edition
5.0
Loved it. Great noir feel and truly gritty. I was reminded of Hubert Selby Jr.
piccoline's review against another edition
4.0
Very good. I'm excited to read more of this series. It hummed along, confident, strong, and I think I wanted it to destroy me. It never quite did, but it's still very good. There's a chance this series could land in some very strong company (LA Quartet (Ellroy), Queenpin (Abbott), Fatale (Manchette)).
ctgt's review against another edition
5.0
This was not a typical crime read, more literate, with some of delving into the human psyche. Never do learn the name of the main character, he is given a murder case and through writings and cassette tapes left by the victim, he learns about his life and tracks down the perps. Looks at the darker side of humanity, not really violence, (although there is some violence throughout) but in the way people can use relationships to control and ultimately alter another persons behavior. He quite literally steps into the role of his victim on his way to solving the case.
I'll probably have to think about this book some more and come back to update my review. I guess that's what a good book should do, make you think about for some time afterwards.
I'll probably have to think about this book some more and come back to update my review. I guess that's what a good book should do, make you think about for some time afterwards.
guiltyfeat's review against another edition
3.0
He Died With His Eyes Open is the first of what became known as the Factory series of detective novels where the Factory is the ugly grey police station in London that houses the anonymous narrator.
The book starts, like all good detective stories, with the discovery of a body. It's 1984 and London is an unforgiving landscape of unemployment and violence. Our detective is physically sickened by the amount of violence that has been perpetrated against this particular victim who appears to have endured it all without closing his eyes.
The case is not a promising one and several times the detective is mocked by his superior, Inspector Bowman, for not wrapping things up quickly and seeking promotion with easy to solve headline cases.
Instead the detective devotes hours to a set of recordings left behind by the murdered Charles Locksley Alwin Staniland. The recordings tell of a disappointing man who has been abandoned by his wife and child and left to drink too much and seek love and companionship in places he had better left undiscovered.
The detective chases down all the available leads and immerses himself deeper into Staniland's life that is healthy. Rather than being solved the crime seems to fester like an untreated boil until lanced.
Throughout the telling there is an oppressive sense of despair, futility and menace which rings true from my own memories of the 80s. In this week of the death of Margaret Thatcher, I have been trying to out into words the sense of hopelessness that she presided over. This grim novel written contemporaneously perfectly captures the spirit of the time.
It's a hard book to like. It's frequently foulmouthed and brutally frank about sex. The violence is appalling and simultaneously detached. I think it's a great snapshot of its time and I may well dig up the subsequent Factory books just to see where the no-name detective goes from here.
The book starts, like all good detective stories, with the discovery of a body. It's 1984 and London is an unforgiving landscape of unemployment and violence. Our detective is physically sickened by the amount of violence that has been perpetrated against this particular victim who appears to have endured it all without closing his eyes.
The case is not a promising one and several times the detective is mocked by his superior, Inspector Bowman, for not wrapping things up quickly and seeking promotion with easy to solve headline cases.
Instead the detective devotes hours to a set of recordings left behind by the murdered Charles Locksley Alwin Staniland. The recordings tell of a disappointing man who has been abandoned by his wife and child and left to drink too much and seek love and companionship in places he had better left undiscovered.
The detective chases down all the available leads and immerses himself deeper into Staniland's life that is healthy. Rather than being solved the crime seems to fester like an untreated boil until lanced.
Throughout the telling there is an oppressive sense of despair, futility and menace which rings true from my own memories of the 80s. In this week of the death of Margaret Thatcher, I have been trying to out into words the sense of hopelessness that she presided over. This grim novel written contemporaneously perfectly captures the spirit of the time.
It's a hard book to like. It's frequently foulmouthed and brutally frank about sex. The violence is appalling and simultaneously detached. I think it's a great snapshot of its time and I may well dig up the subsequent Factory books just to see where the no-name detective goes from here.