Praise for Derek Raymond's Factory Series
"Unrelenting existentialist noir—as if the most brutal of crime fictions had been recast by Sartre, Camus, or Ionesco while retaining something of the intimate wise-guy tone of Raymond Chandler and Dashiell Hammett."
—Joyce Carol Oates, The New York Review of Books
"It’s one of the darkest and most surrealistically hard-boiled things I’ve ever read. The detective is at least as scary as the murderers he’s chasing."
—William Gibson, bestselling author of Neuromancer
"There remains no finer writing—crime or otherwise —about the state of Britain."
—David Peace, author of "The Red Riding Quartet."
"No one claiming interest in literature truly written from the edge of human experience, no one wondering at the limits of the crime novel and of literature itself, can overlook these extraordinary books."
—James Sallis, author of Drive
"The Factory novels are certainly the most viscerally imagined of their kind that I've ever read, or reread multiple times. Derek Raymond wrote in a supposedly escapist genre in a manner that precluded any hope of escape."
—Scott Phillips, bestselling author of The Ice Harvest
"I Was Dora Suarez blew me away—beyond hard boiled."
"More Chandleresque than Chandler... [Raymond] could write beautifully...and, more importantly, what he is writing about in this novel are nothing less than the important subjects any writer can deal with: mortality and death."
“A crackerjack of a crime novel, unafraid to face the reality of man’s and woman’s evil.”
"The beautiful, ruthless simplicity of the Factory novels is that Raymond rewrites the basic ethos of the classic detective novel."
—Charles Taylor, The Nation
"Hellishly bleak and moving."
A noir-drenched British import about a nameless cop chasing the killer of an unmourned victim. With a flat wallet and shabby clothes, it's clear that the corpse is a throwaway. Nobody cares except for a nameless detective sergeant in the London Metropolitan Police's Department of Unexplained Deaths, a place where lost souls sometimes get justice. The victim has two posthumous pieces of luck: The nameless cop is unusually smart, and he's famously obsessed. When the brutalized corpse is found half-buried in the shrubbery fronting the Word of God House, with all signs marking him as a derelict, Homicide wastes no time before delegating the case. In his patented, inexorable fashion, the sergeant goes to work, and four days later, the derelict has been unveiled as Charles Staniland, a writer who left behind a bonanza of pages and tapes, furnishing insights into a life that was often tortured and ultimately wasted. But Charlie's words and thoughts resonate with the man investigating his murder. He listens, reads, empathizes and finally acts in a way that has practically nothing to do with law enforcement and everything to do with retribution. Originally published in 1984 as the first of a series of six quintessentially bleak novels that faithfully evoke a world many sensitive souls will be pleased to avoid.