And then when everything was in it's place, when the perfection of that particular morning reached an almost frightening point, the old gentleman died without saying a word, without a cry, without a contortion while he was looking at his coloured prints, listening to the voice of the bookseller as it ran on and on, to the cheeping of the sparrows, the occasional horns of taxis.
For years he toiled, writing treatments and B-movie scripts, living, like Tod Hackett, in run down digs. He met con men and cops, prostitutes a nd failed vaudevillians. He hung out at the police precincts and went to cockfights at Pismo Beach. He explored brothels, upscale and otherwise. He became a flaneur of the city's underbelly, holding court at Musso and Frank's restaurant or the Stanley Rose bookstore, and beginning to feed all these characters and experiences into a novel he planned at first (according to his biographer Jay Martin) to call "The Cheated".
excerpt from
Nathanael West and the Writing of Day of the Locust