Busy reading The Detective by Roderick Thorp and I feel like I’ve discovered a new world: American crime fiction from that twenty-year period between the end of WW2 and the beginning of the counter-culture.

The values and frames of reference in the novel feel almost antique. Reading it is like looking at a lost world, through a haze. I’m made aware that something has diminished in the fifty-odd years since it was published.