In Man Alone: The Dark Book, Jack Remick, Seattle’s treasure emeritus, invented a new genre—pulp literature, in this latest of his twenty-two books. He delivers lines with the deadpan understatement of Raymond Chandler. He lays down fresh images, without a trace of hackney. This is a book anyone can read because, to its virtue, it doesn’t stink of high literature. In this story, as in life, the questions come easier than the answers. Foremost, I find myself wondering about the transactional nature of relationships. What happens to people who can’t meet the price that a high-rise city requires of them? When is the cost of a relationship, whether with alcohol or with a dangerous woman, too high to bear? Remick has come into a new super power in Man Alone.
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