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After his graduation from Dulwich, in 1906, he spent a year abroad, studying languages in France and Germany. His uncle pushed him to become a civil servant, and upon his return from the continent he found work as an accountant with the admiralty, a job he hated and quit after a few months. He tried his hand at writing, producing some unremarkable poems and essays, and then, in 1912, he decided to leave England and come to America. Why? As Chandler himself put it, “America seemed to call to me in some mysterious way.”
On the boat that brought him to America, he met the Warren Lloyd family from Los Angeles, who were returning from a year abroad. The Lloyds were wealthy and cultivated, just the sort of people Chandler liked. Warren Lloyd was a graduate of Yale, his wife, Alma, a singer and sculptor. They were traveling with their two children, Estelle and Edward. Warren was trained as a lawyer, but he also had an interest in the occult and the new field of psychology: he was a devotee of Madame Blavatsky and had recently published a book called Psychology Normal and Abnormal. The Lloyds encouraged Chandler to come to Los Angeles, where they promised to help him find work and introduce him to society. Had he not met the Lloyds, it is unlikely Chandler would ever have ended up in L.A., but as it was, after months of working his way across the country, he arrived in the city and took the Lloyds up on their offer of help.
Photo: California Historical Society, Flickr.
L.A. was a brand-new metropolis when Chandler arrived, attracting people from all over the country but particularly from the Midwest with claims of a climate so healthful it could cure any ailment. It was the first city in America to be packaged and sold like a commodity, marketed to the people of the United States just like automobiles or cigarettes or toothpaste through the cleverest of advertising campaigns. Referred to as a tropical paradise for Americans, it was said to be a place so sublime it was billed as “the American Italy” or “Italy closer to home.” An Italy, in other words, without a troublesome foreign language. No strange money, either, or unfamiliar food, but rather an incredibly alluring new metropolis, a place where the rank growth of fruit and flowers and the strange golden light and gentle climate (“Sleep under a blanket all summer! Wear only a sweater in the winter!”) created a sense of paradise on earth.
Into this paradise came Raymond Chandler. Los Angeles really was a kind of Eden when he arrived, just waiting for the one item to make its allure total and complete and usher in what J. B. Priestley once described as our “brand-new busy world.” When Henry Ford began mass-producing that item, and when the railroads finally connected L.A. with the rest of the country, there was no stopping the influx of people who swarmed to Southern California to take advantage of its perfect climate and myth of easy living.
Photo: Wikimedia Commons.
I drove down Alvarado, heading south past MacArthur Park with its two halves divided by Wilshire Boulevard. I was thinking about how few parks were ever made in Los Angeles, how the city fathers hadn’t felt that kind of common public space was necessary, certainly not after the automobile arrived. The automobile made parks (what one urban planner had called the lungs of a city) obsolete—made walking and common public space quite unnecessary. With a car, the whole glorious space of Southern California, with its ocean and beaches and deserts and mountains, became one vast personalized recreational area. But MacArthur Park—then called Westlake Park—was established before the automobile took complete hold of L.A., when the electric trams provided excellent public transportation for the city’s citizens and the borders of the metropolis had not yet been extended to include single streets that were sixty miles long.
Photo: Boston Public Library, Flickr.
I was trying to imagine how this park must have looked to Chandler when he moved into this neighborhood compared to how it looked now. In recent years it had become a sadly degenerate public space, a tattered and shabby expanse of bare dirt and worn grass and neglected trees, with a boarded-up little boathouse overlooking a small polluted lake, where out-of-work men and newly arrived immigrants slept rough beneath the rattling palms. Not long ago I had walked through the park and stopped to read a sign posted near a tunnel running beneath Wilshire Boulevard:
Welcome to MacArthur Park.
There is a “No Tolerance” policy in MacArthur Park and the Alvarado Corridor. If you choose to conduct criminal activity, you will be caught and prosecuted. The following is outlawed: illegal possession of hypodermic needles, possession of shopping carts, open containers, possession of controlled substances, including cocaine base, marijuana, methamphetamines, or narcotics paraphernalia; no loitering for narcotics, no graffiti, littering, prostitution, or uncertified highway carriers of persons; no throwing substances at vehicles, no sitting, lying or sleeping on public sidewalks, no panhandling, gambling or dicing or being present at gambling, no violating curfew, no indecent exposure in park, removing recyclable material; no swimming in lake, no diving, camping, or lodging; dogs must be on leash, no bicycles, no skating, no skate-boards, no open fires, no littering, no amplified sound.

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