“His eyes were deep, far too deep. They were the depthless drugged eyes of the somnambulist. They were like a well I read about once. It was nine hundred years old, and in an old castle. You could drop a stone into it and wait. You could listen and wait and then you would give up waiting and laugh and as you were ready to turn away a faint, minute splash would come back up to you from the bottom of that well, so tiny, so remote that you could hardly believe it was possible.
His eyes were deep like that.”
—Raymond Chandler. Farewell, My Lovely.