There was a point during the middle of the twentieth century when cheap fiction abounded. Pulp novels, as they are called, were creations bound for dime store glory, printed on cheap paper with sensational covers, often depicting events that weren’t even related to the stories inside. These stories were filled with sex, violence, substance abuse and tormented characters who indulged in all of the above.
Jim Thompson’s 1952 novel, The Killer Inside Me, is the perfect read if you’re looking for a dose of the darker side of postmodern literature.
The novel, told entirely in first person narrative, follows a young deputy sheriff named Lou Ford in the small town of Central City, Texas. From the looks of it, Ford’s a pretty normal guy, exactly what you’d expect from his self-professed character traits: a little slow-witted, full of clichés and corny. It seems like the only trouble he runs into is carrying on conversations with the residents without them wanting to shut him up.
But this is where you’re wrong. Beneath Ford’s “good ol’ boy” exterior is a depraved and extremely clever sociopath with a whole closet full of skeletons. In the first chapter, the reader is forced to listen to him recount boring conversations at a restaurant, only to take hold of a transient in the parking lot and put a lit cigar out in the palm of his hand. For what reason? Because Ford has “the sickness.”
While it’s never fully revealed what “the sickness” actually is, the reader can guess about it from the situations Ford gets himself into and his way of dealing with things. What we do know about it is that it almost landed him in a boys’ reformatory when he was younger until his older brother took the fall instead. The crime, whilst also never fully revealed, can be assumed from the grotesque smatterings from the past Ford occasionally explains to the reader.
Before long, Lou Ford has found himself involved in a seemingly cut-and-dry double murder case. The murder involves a prostitute (Joyce Lakeland) with whom he’s carried on a sadomasochistic relationship and a construction company owner’s son (Elmer Conway), whose father may have been responsible for Ford’s older brother’s death. All of this with a dose of blackmail and a schoolteacher girlfriend, Amy Stanton, who isn’t as pure and innocent as the title would have us believe.
The plot only gets more complex from there.
Soon, bodies start piling up around town and Lou Ford always seems to be there when they are discovered.
This novel is unlike anything you’ve ever read. Let me just say that again. This novel is unlike anything you’ve ever read.
Thompson is so skilled in masking the language and actions of Lou Ford that the reader actually begins to laugh at his corny statements, grimace at his uncomfortable situations, and forget that he is a button-down maniac. This feat by Thompson is so powerful that it gained the attention of noted director, Stanley Kubrick, who said the novel is “probably the most chilling and believable first-person story of a criminally warped mind I have ever encountered.”
The character of Lou Ford doesn’t see any wrong in his actions, and since he’s the one telling the story, the reader begins to lose grip on whatever idea of a stable reality he or she may have. The way he goes about his business is highly disturbing, as well, explaining his killing to a lawyer later in the book: “You see, I had to destroy them.”
You’re brought into the mind of the killer, knowing his every move, knowing his rationale, even cheering him on as he spits in the face of suspicious authorities on his trail.
You’ll never find this in a Norton anthology. What this novel does best of all, in terms of leaving a mark on literary history, is stand as a testament to the noir and pulp novels of the time. This is easily one of the best novels of the genre. It will leave readers questioning their own sense of reality by the time they finish the book.
Conner McDonough can be reached at cmcdonough@spartans.ut.edu.