“There is nothing tougher than a tough Mexican, just as there is nothing gentler than a gentle Mexican, nothing more honest than an honest Mexican, and above all nothing sadder than a sad Mexican. This guy was one of the hard boys. They don’t come any harder anywhere.”
–Raymond Chandler, The Long Goodbye.
“How old, lad, when you fought that Mexican?”
“Pretty damn old, I’m thinking. Twenty-two.
I was an Irish beanpole, not a man,
and yet I’d managed long to battle through
the kind of opposition that I knew.
This Mexican I didn’t. Short and thick
and maybe just a little plump, he threw
not leather, but a jab that felt like brick.
I managed to avoid the hook, felt sick
when I endured a sudden uppercut.
The distance I could not control. Both slick
and solid, he had taught me what was what.
I kept my feet. I say that’s something, see?
Marlowe, there is no need for telling me….”