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aee8537
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I didn't mind what she called me, what anybody called me. But this was the room I had to live in. It was all I had in the way of a home. In it was everything that was mine, that had any association for me, any past, anything that took the place of a family. Not much: a few books, pictures, radio, chessmen, old letters, stuff like that. Nothing. Such as they were, they had all my memories.
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memories
past
carmen-sternwood
chessmen
old-letters
pictures
the-hobart-arms
so-noir-it-hurts
philip-marlowe
home
radio
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Raymond Chandler |