There are two kinds of truth: the truth that lights the way and the truth that warms the heart. The first of these is science, and the second is art. Neither is independent of the other nor more important than the other. Without art science would be as useless as a pair of high forceps in the hands of a plumber. Without science art would become a crude mess of folklore and emotional quackery. The truth of art keeps science from becoming inhuman, and the truth of science keeps art from becoming ridiculous.", February 19, 1938)

— Raymond Chandler

There are two kinds of truth: the truth that lights the way and the truth that warms the heart. The first of these is science, and the second is art. Neither is independent of the other nor more important than the other. Without art science would be as useless as a pair of high forceps in the hands of a plumber. Without science art would become a crude mess of folklore and emotional quackery. The truth of art keeps science from becoming inhuman, and the truth of science keeps art from becoming riding

— Raymond Chandler

There is no bad whiskey. There are only some whiskeys that aren't as good as others.

— Raymond Chandler

There was a sad fellow over on a bar stool talking to the bartender, who was polishing a glass and listening with that plastic smile people wear when they are trying not to scream.

— Raymond Chandler

The tragedy of life, Howard, is not that the beautiful die young, but that they grow old and mean. It will not happen to me.

— Raymond Chandler

The voice was cool, drawling, and insolent, but the eyes were something else. She looked about as hard to get as a haircut.

— Raymond Chandler

Throw up into your typewriter every morning. Clean up every noon.

— Raymond Chandler

Time makes everything mean and shabby and wrinkled. The tragedy of life, Howard, is not that the beautiful things die young, but that they grow old and mean.

— Raymond Chandler

To say goodbye is to die a little.

— Raymond Chandler

Under the thinning fog the surf curled and creamed, almost without sound, like a thought trying to form itself on the edge of consciousness.

— Raymond Chandler