Reading some David Jones again. Trying to get out of my rut (trench?).
Along with some Ross McDonald potboilers from the 60s. Funny writer. A lot of self-parody.
He smiled with conscious charm. But the charm he was conscious of, if it had ever existed, had dried up and blown away. His front teeth glared at me like a pair of chisels.
I got out my black book and made a note of the Cadillac's license number. It had California plates.
"What are you writing?"
He reached through the open window for my notebook. "Let's see it," he said in a loud unimpressive voice. His eyes were anxious.
"I never show work in progress."
I closed the book and put it back in my inside breast pocket. Then I started to turn up the window on his arm.
(from Black Money, 1965)