Sade ve içten diliyle Capote, öykülerini bir solukta okuyabileceğiniz bir yazar. Hayatını az çok okuduysanız, her öyküsüne kendi çocukluğundan bir şeyler kattığını farkedebilirsiniz... İhtiyar kuzenleriyle taşrada büyümüş bu oğlan çocuğu, sizi öykülerindeki kasabalara götürüp karakterlerle tanıştırırken hiçbirine yabancılık çekmemenizi sağlayan samimi dili kuşkusuz bu sürükleyiciliğin temelini oluşturuyor. Kitabı okurken 1930'ların, 50'lerin caz standartlarından bir müzik listesi size eşlik etsin, oldukça keyifli oluyor...

Citaat : Lijkt ze niet net op een ijsbloem… zo stralend en wit? uit Miriam
Review : Truman Garcia Capote (1924- 1984) was een Amerikaans schrijver. Hij schreef fictie, non-fictie, korte verhalen en theaterstukken. Zijn bekendste werken zijn de factionroman In Cold Blood en de novelle Breakfast at Tiffany's. Capote werd geboren als Truman Streckfus Persons in New Orleans. Hij was een eenzaam kind en leerde zichzelf lezen voordat hij naar de basisschool ging. Op zijn vierde verhuisde hij naar Monroeville waar hij bevriend raakte met de latere auteur Harper Lee, zijn buurmeisje. Met haar zou hij een levenslange vriendschap onderhouden en hij was van invloed op haar bekendste werk To Kill a Mockingbird. Capote zelf begon te schrijven op zijn achtste en beweerde op zijn negende al een boek te hebben geschreven. Toen hij 11 werd begon hij serieus aan het schrijven van boeken. In 1933 verhuisde hij naar New York om met zijn moeder en haar tweede echtgenoot, Joseph Capote, te gaan leven, wiens naam hij ook aannam. Toen hij zeventien was begon hij al te schrijven voor het tijdschrift The New Yorker.



Zijn debuutroman Other Voices, Other Rooms (1948) was direct een groot succes en werd een bestseller. Het boek stond meer dan negen weken bovenaan de literatuurlijst van de New York Times. Na Other Voices, Other Rooms volgden er meer werken. Breakfast at Tiffany's was een succes, evenals In Cold Blood, een faction roman' over een brute moord op een gezin in Holcomb (Kansas). Capote dook diep in de zaak en sprak met iedereen die te maken had met de zaak, waaronder de twee, ter dood veroordeelde, moordenaars. Hij raakte bevriend met de moordenaars waardoor het voor hem zeer moeilijk werd om het boek af te maken. Dit conflict was de basis voor een verfilming van deze periode in zijn leven: Capote (2005).



Pas in 2005 verscheen Summer Crossing (in het Nederlands vertaald als Een zomer lang). Het manuscript van deze kleine roman, geschreven in de jaren veertig (nog voor Other Voices, Other Rooms), dook in 2004 op bij een veiling. Na het succes van In Cold Blood had Capote dit manuscript ('niet geschikt voor publicatie') bij het oud papier gezet, waar het Capote was openlijk homoseksueel in een tijd waarin dat nog ongebruikelijk was. Hij stond bekend om zijn hoge, lispelende stem en aparte kleding. Zijn gelijkenis met de eveneens homoseksuele dandy, Oscar Wilde, is treffend. Hij was een beroemdheid in de literaire kringen van de Verenigde Staten en beweerde vele beroemdheden intiem te kennen, wat achteraf lang niet altijd waar bleek te zijn. In zijn latere leven leefde Capote teruggetrokken. Hij raakte verslaafd aan alcohol en drugs, wat grote negatieve gevolgen voor zijn gezondheid had. Hij leed vaak aan hallucinaties door zijn afhankelijkheid van stimulerende middelen. Capote overleed in augustus 1984 op 59-jarige leeftijd als gevolg van een overdosis in het huis van Joanne Carson, voormalig echtgenote van de beroemde tv-presentator Johnny Carson.



Hoewel Capote vooral bekend is van Breakfast at Tiffany’s en In Cold Blood, , noemde Capote zelf het korte verhaal als zijn ‘grote liefde’. Voor het eerst verschijnen nu alle eenen­twintig ‘volwassen’ verhalen van Capote in Nederlandse vertaling. Naast klassiekers als ‘Een nachtboom’ en ‘Een kerstherinnering’ zijn er een tiental niet eerder vertaalde ver­ halen opgenomen. Alle onvergetelijke locaties en personages uit Capotes oeuvre komen aan bod: van het ruige Zuiden tot de chique Oostkust, van plattelandskinderen tot mondaine dames op leeftijd. ‘Wie wil ontdekken wat voor stilist Capote was, kan het beste zijn verhalen lezen.’ Truman Capotes’ fictie en autobiografische werken hielpen meee bij de creatie van wat men de wezenlijke homoseksuele schrijfstijl van de jaren 1950 en 1960 kan noemen, met duidelijke links naar het werk van Tennessee Williams bijvoorbeeld. Deze stijl was enerzijds “verborgen”, aangezien het zelden op een open manier over homoseksualiteit sprak, maar anderzijds ook “open”, omdat de code voor homoseksuele interpretaties heel gemakkelijk te doorgronden was. De basis voor deze stijl kan gevonden worden in de nadruk op zijn zuiderse achtergrond in werken zoals zijn eerste roman, “Other Voices, Other Rooms (1948)”, “The Grass Harp (1951)”, “A Christmas Memory (1966)”, e.a. Zijn aandacht voor oudere vrouwelijke personages; zijn omschrijvingen in zijn werken, wat in die tijd gelijk stond aan een soort van “gevoeligheid” (bijvoorbeeld, de voorrang die hij gaf aan gevoelens en emoties boven daden) en uiteindelijk, zijn eigen vervrouwelijkte, zuiderse manieren tijdens praatprogramma’s op televisie in de jaren 1960 en 1970, die gekenmerkt werden door zijn scherpzinnigheid, hatelijke opmerkingen en onmiddellijke beledigingen voordat alcohol zijn ooit zo wonderlijke brein benevelde. Het misschien wel meest duidelijke voorbeeld van Capotes’ homoseksuele gevoeligheid is in “Breakfast at Tiffany´s (1958)”. Zoals Clarke aantoont, was de heldin in de roman, Holly Golightly, een fusie tussen de eigenzinnige, knappe, sociaal ambitieuze vrouwen die Capote kende en aanbad. Met haar ongelukkige achtergrond, gevolgd door een reis naar New York, leek Holly’s leven het verlangen van vele homoseksuele mannen te reflecteren die vluchten naar de grote stad om vrijheid te vinden. Toch was ze ondanks alles een vrouw – op een Auntie Mame wijze – en geen mannelijke travestiet. Capotes’ kundigheid om de ondraaglijk onjuiste veronderstellingen over homoseksuele mannen in kunst om te zetten, is één van de vlakken waarop hij erg ondergewaardeerd werd. Capotes’ vrouwelijke personages zijn geen homofantasieën over vrouwen. Capote toont daarentegen aan dat de zorgen en de emotionele behoeften van vrouwen en homoseksuele mannen met elkaar verweven zijn.



Het verhaal “Miriam”, gepubliceerd in Mademoiselle in 1945, was het begin van Capotes’ carrière, wiens’ reputatie daarna verder versterkt werd door de publicatie van “A Tree of Night” in Harpers’ Bazaar datzelfde jaar. Zijn beste journalistiekwerk is “The Muses Are Heard (1956)”, het relaas over een voornamelijk zwart gezelschap dat door de Sovjet-Unie toert met “Porgy and Bess”. Zijn Mademoiselle-debuut ‘Miriam’, ook opgenomen in deze bundel, was Capote’s doorbraak in literair New York. Het is een raadselachtige vertelling met die typische Capote-eigenschap: plotseling verschijnt er een problematisch personage, dat een spoor van vernieling achterlaat en dan weer verdwijnt. De vereenzaamde oudere weduwe Miriam Miller komt op een sneeuwavond een meisje met zilverwitte haren tegen, wachtend bij de bioscoopingang. Ze vraagt Mrs. Miller om voor haar een kaartje te kopen. Ze heeft geld, en een uitgebreide woordenschat. Dan scheiden hun wegen, totdat de kleine Miriam een week later op weer een sneeuwavond uitgehongerd bij Mrs. Miller aanbelt. En dan is er ook ‘De havik zonder kop’. Waaron de 36-jarige galeriemedewerker Vincent Waters een zwakke werkelijkheidszin heeft en zich achtervolgd weet door een buitenissig geklede jonge vrouw. Later duikt zij op in de galerie en biedt haar schilderijen te koop aan. Wie is zij? Waar komt ze vandaan?



Niet alleen ‘Miriam’ en ‘De havik zonder kop’ zijn vertellingen waarin de identiteit van het hoofdpersonage op drijfzand lijkt te berusten na de plotselinge verschijning van een mysterieuze ander. In het gevangenisverhaal ‘Een diamanten gitaar’ is het een veroordeelde jonge en vrijheidlievende Cubaan die geplaatst wordt in een gevangenisboerderij en daar de levenslang vastzittende ‘leider’ Mr. Shaeffer uit zijn evenwicht brengt. In ‘Preacher’s Legend’ ziet Mr. Preacher – stokoud, zwart en analfabeet – in twee opeens opduikende blanke jagers Jezus en een heilige die hem mee willen nemen naar de hemel. Achter al die onverwachte verschijningen en abrupte verdwijningen zit één overheersend verlangen: de honger naar liefde van degene die in de steek wordt gelaten. De verhalen van Truman capote hebben nog niets aan hun actualiteit ingeboet en weten nog immer te boeien en te verwonderen.

What is it about Truman Capote? Despite the fact that he was unquestionably a minor writer, with an uncommonly thin portfolio of published work considering his forty-year career, he remains a figure of fascination. There have been books about him, movies, a Broadway play—and most of his own writing is still in print, still celebrated nearly thirty years after his death. And, even if I’m not always sure quite why, I’ve loved his work above that of virtually any other American writer for more than three decades.

I recognize that Faulkner, Hemingway, Henry James and the rest are vastly more important figures in the landscape of American literature, and I do love some of their work; but for me, well, I’d rather read Capote. Part of this may have to do with when I discovered him—at 20, just as I was graduating from the pulp fiction I’d read throughout my childhood and adolescence. Truman Capote was one of the first writers I’d encountered (along with Tennessee Williams, William Styron, and James Baldwin) for whom style was as important as story—who showed me that how a story was told was as important as what happened in it. I responded immediately and totally to his literary voice, and nothing made me fall in love with his writing harder than some of the pieces collected in “The Complete Stories of Truman Capote.”

Re-reading them now for the first time in a long while, I find that it’s still the early ones (originally collected in “A Tree of Night and Other Stories”) that move me the most—the Southern Gothics he wrote at the beginning of his career. Even here, I’m sometimes puzzled at how strongly I respond to these tales, considering how obvious their debt is to Carson McCullers and Eudora Welty. (His imagery and sentence rhythms are unmistakably reminiscent of McCullers, and his tale “My Side of the Matter” is uncomfortably similar in both style and plot to Welty’s “Why I Live at the P.O.”) Yet, despite the perhaps too-clear literary lineage, it seems to me that Capote’s brilliance with language and his ability to limn the emotional terrain of loneliness and alienation set him apart. Just listen to the opening of 1945’s “A Tree of Night”:

“It was winter. A string of naked light bulbs, from which it seemed all warmth had been drained, illuminated the little depot’s cold, windy platform. Earlier in the evening it had rained, and now icicles hung along the station-house eaves like some crystal monster’s vicious teeth. Except for a girl, young and rather tall, the platform was deserted. The girl wore a gray flannel suit, a raincoat, and a plaid scarf. Her hair, parted in the middle and rolled up neatly on the sides, was a rich blondish-brown; and, while her face tended to be too thin and narrow, she was, though not extraordinarily so, attractive. In addition to an assortment of magazines and a gray suede purse on which elaborate brass letters spelled Kay, she carried conspicuously a green Western guitar.”

This is the kind of writing you either respond to or don’t. For me, it was a definitive one-paragraph object lesson in how to set mood and tone in a short story. Many others—“Miriam,” “Shut a Final Door,” and especially the sublime, hallucinatory “The Headless Hawk”—provided more lessons. Even today, thirty years later, I feel I still learn from re-reading these remarkable stories.

It must be admitted that the later tales in the collection are something of a mixed bag. Capote lost interest in short fiction after his initial splash with “A Tree of Night and Other Stories” and worked only sporadically in the form thereafter. Of the later tales, the quasi-memoir “A Christmas Memory” is surely as perfect a piece of prose about that holiday as has ever been written. The other holiday tales, “The Thanksgiving Visitor” and “One Christmas,” while competent, seem anti-climactic after it.

Alas, I feel compelled to deduct one star from my rating—not because of Capote’s stories, but because of Reynolds Price’s unsympathetic and uncomprehending introduction, which should not have been published here. Between his bogus claim that the magnificent early stories “lack an emotional center” (it seems Price would have liked them to clearly be gay-confession narratives) to his dismissive remark that the extraordinary, much-anthologized “Children on Their Birthdays” resembles a “not-quite-finished” Welty tale, it’s clear that Price was the wrong man for this particular job. I can only hope that future editions of “The Complete Stories of Truman Capote” eliminate this silly essay.

Five stars for Capote; zero for Reynolds Price.

Sempre se terá de dizer que não é por aqui que os leitores chegarão ao melhor de Capote. Eu vim sobretudo para ler Mister Misery, e pela pior das razões, que é ter encontrado referência num artigo científico sobre sonhos (às vezes há uns médicos que gostam de mostrar viagens por outros lados). Esse é bom, como é Mojave (que é um conto que se transforma noutro) ou The headless hawk. Terem sido escritos para surgirem em separado, por revistas, não ajuda, tal como não ajuda vermos as mesmas personagens com nomes diferentes nas diversas histórias (ah, o peso da biografia) ou a jovem frágil e misteriosa de Breakfast at Tiffany repetida em todas as personagens femininas. Mas não se demovam. Porque isto há o bom, o muito bom e o milagroso, e o leitor está cá para tudo.

Of all the stories of mr. Capote, the ones with Miss Sook really got me. The tenderness, the simple way in which complicated, vital things are explained, the amazing use of imagery is all only to prove Capote's genius.

Truly, I can’t say enough about Truman Capote’s talent and range as a writer. At this point I really shouldn’t be surprised anymore, but he continuously surprises me! I enjoyed absolutely every story in this collection. Truman captures all sorts of people, and situations, with a certain beauty, clarity, and reflective honesty. I find him to be such a fascinating individual… his writing suggests that although he was a large personality himself, he was also an incredibly discerning observer of others.

Favorite quotes:
“Embarrassingly confused she turned to the window and met her face mirrored there. The face was calm and it surprised her because she felt a dizzy unreality as if she were swinging between two dream points.”

“Yet he was so withdrawn you sometimes had this awful creepy feeling that, well, maybe he didn't exist.”

“He shook his head, and wondered why it was that eccentricity always excited in him such curious admiration. It was the feeling he’d had as a child toward carnival freaks. And it was true that about those whom he'd loved there was always a little something wrong, broken. Strange, though, that this quality, having stimulated an attraction, should, in his case, regularly end it by destroying it.”

“There had seemed nothing left him until-oh, why in his lovers must he always find the broken image of himself?”

"Sorry, Walter, I can't afford you any longer. I understand you very well, and I have a certain amount of sympathy. It's very compulsive, your malice, and you aren't too much to blame, but I don't want ever to see you again because I'm not so well myself that I can afford it."

“…he was one of those men who truly noticed a woman's appearance, gathered at a glance the total atmosphere. He was worth dressing for, and it was one of her lesser reasons for loving him.”

I've read a lot of Truman Capote, and have always liked his writing, and even his strange personality and flamboyant lifestyle, but I never realized what a genius he was til I read these early stories of his. The first one in this collection was written when he was 19. 19!!! The early ones are very gothic and eerie; the later stories are more professional and polished; but all of them were enjoyable little gems.

Ciao Truman.

Mi intristisce davvero tanto, credimi, vederti sdraiato lì, sul letto, immemore di te stesso, circondato da bottiglie vuote e altri più spiacevoli segni dell’umana fragilità. Oh, lo so che da questa particolare crisi ti riprenderai, ma poi ce ne sarà un’altra e poi un’altra e un’altra ancora, sino all’ultima, quella fatale, quella in cui darai definitivamente forfait.
Ti prendo la mano, ok? Non posso fare altro per te, perché io arrivo dal futuro e tu sei già morto da tanti anni. Senza contare che abito a centinaia di chilometri da te. Ma possiamo ricordare assieme, questo sì. Ti va?

Ti rammenti quando hai detto “Ho sempre saputo che ero in grado di prendere un qualsiasi grappolo di parole, di lanciarlo in aria per poi vederlo ricadere nel modo giusto”? Beh, era vero. Lo sapevi fare. Eccome. Magari non proprio sempre, ma molto spesso sì.

Prendiamo Holly, ad esempio. La Holly del tuo romanzo, naturalmente, non quella del film Colazione da Tiffany, che è stata un’altra cosa.
La tua Holly era il desiderio con la “d” maiuscola, era l’irrequietezza, era la volontà di essere altrove (sempre “in transito”, come diceva il suo biglietto da visita), era l’insoddisfazione, era la curiosità, era il non poter mai essere “a casa”, era una ferita aperta, era la paura, era la voglia e il timore di amare, era la necessità di qualcosa di solido che non avrebbe mai potuto trovare realizzazione. La tua Holly eri tu, Truman. Costantemente in fuga e costantemente alla ricerca di qualcosa o qualcuno che ti desse delle radici. Ma non le hai mai trovate. Solo il gatto senza nome è, alla fine, riuscito nell’intento. Forse. Ma non è proprio certo. Per questo, a tutt’oggi, se si scrutano con attenzione le sobrie vetrine di Tiffany&Co., sulla Quinta Strada, è ancora possibile vedervi riflessa l’immagine di un uomo con un’espressione arrogante e mesta al contempo e di un gatto rossiccio e malmesso che, ciò nonostante, “muove la coda come se dirigesse una rapsodia”. Perché lì non ti può succedere nulla di male. O almeno lo si spera. Una sia pur piccola illusione (o una “vestina per coprire gli ignudi”, come avrebbe detto Pirandello) bisogna ben averla.
Capisco benissimo che ti sia incazzato come una biscia quando hai scoperto in quale banale e scontata figura il cinema avesse trasformato Holly, dopo che gliene avevi venduti i diritti. Non perché il film in sé non funzioni, intendiamoci, infatti ormai è diventato quasi un cult movie, bensì perché hanno completamente stravolto il senso del tuo romanzo. Ne hanno fatto una donnetta qualsiasi, vagamente eccentrica ed esageratamente e improbabilmente “raffinata” (non per nulla Audrey Hepburn aveva già efficacemente interpretato My Fair Lady, nel lontano 1964), ma sostanzialmente identica nelle aspirazioni a una casalinga di Milano, Roma o Timbuctù. Ma lei non era così. E tu non eri così. Eri un uomo difficile, contraddittorio, insicuro e anche un tantino stronzo, diciamocelo, però non eri così.
Forse avevi ragione quando sostenevi che avrebbe dovuto essere Marilyn Monroe a interpretare Holly e non Audrey Hepburn. Ma, considerando i cambiamenti introdotti nella trama, tutto sommato riconoscerai che la sua smilza figura e il suo vago androginismo, in qualche modo, contrabbandano nelle immagini ciò che si è cercato di cancellare a tutti i costi dal tessuto della storia che tu avevi scritto e cioè il fatto che potrebbe anche trattarsi di un “ragazzino” invece che di una “ragazzina”. Sia pur in tono sommesso e del tutto involontario, la Hepburn ti ha reso una qualche ragione. Non è molto, lo ammetto, ma meglio che niente.

Cerca di riprenderti, Truman, anche se sarà una faticaccia dopo tutto quell’alcol e quei sonniferi che hai buttato giù. I soccorsi arriveranno a breve, vedrai. Lo so per certo. Arrivo dal futuro, come ti ho detto. E intanto ascoltami, non ti addormentare di nuovo. Ti farei un caffè, se potessi.
Lo sai che tutte le volte che riprendo in mano quello straordinario libro che è A sangue freddo la sua bellezza torna a commuovermi? Quanti anni ci hai speso per scriverlo, Truman? Cinque? Sei? Una cosa del genere, mi par di ricordare. E quante polemiche, poi. Quante accuse ti sono state rivolte … voyeur, cinico, profittatore, insensibile … Ma tu Perry lo dovevi comprendere, lo dovevi capire, lo dovevi indagare, lo dovevi “sviscerare”, perché Perry saresti potuto essere tu se non avessi avuto talento nello scrivere. Per questo, a modo tuo, gli hai voluto sinceramente bene e hai cercato di aiutarlo, benché colpevole fosse. Anche se, ad essere amaramente oggettivi, quanto ti ha davvero giovato avere talento?
Dai, fai uno sforzo e tirati su. Puzzi niente male, lo sai? Vabbè, appoggia la testa sul cuscino.
Ti leggo un pezzetto del commento che ho scritto riguardo a questo tuo romanzo su aNobii, un social network dedicato alla letteratura che nascerà in futuro. Non sto neppure a spiegarti cosa sia un social network, tanto, giustamente, non te ne fregherebbe niente. Però so che le mie parole ti lusingheranno, perché sei molto vanitoso. Stai a sentire …

La copertina della mia copia di A sangue freddo è molto rovinata e le mancano persino due “angolini”, in alto ed in basso. L’edizione risale al 1969 e costava 500 lire. Le pagine sono ingiallite e molto ruvide. Ma, nonostante tutto ciò, continua a contenere una delle storie meglio narrate che io abbia mai letto, una di quelle storie che non ti dimentichi, una di quelle storie che finiscono per far parte della tua vita, una di quelle storie che, dopo averla terminata, ti fa capire finalmente il motivo per cui è assolutamente necessario imparare a leggere.
Per me, i Clutter non sono mai stati un’anonima famiglia americana morta tanto tempo fa. Io i Clutter li “conosco”. Dick e Perry non sono mai stati i due balordi che li hanno trucidati nel 1959. Io Dick e Perry li “conosco”.
Li “conosco” come se fossi stata lì, quel fatidico, ultimo giorno di metà novembre, a guardare con ansia Nancy che nascondeva il “suo bene più caro”, l’orologio donatole dal padre, in fondo ad una scarpa, amorevolmente avvolto in un fazzoletto. Li “conosco” come se avessi provato io stessa quell’impulso, che ha provato Bonnie, a chiudere il ventaglietto di carta in miniatura tra le mani inquiete della piccola Jolene. Li “conosco” come se mi fossi soffermata un momento a riflettere, assieme ad Herbert, su ciò che era stata e su ciò che sarebbe stata in futuro la mia vita, prima di firmare una consistente polizza assicurativa. Li “conosco” come se avessi passato la serata a lucidare con Kenyon la cassapanca che sarebbe stata il regalo donato a Beverly per il suo matrimonio. Li “conosco” come se avessi personalmente ascoltato le deliranti sbruffonate che Dick raccontava a Wells in carcere. Li “conosco” come se Perry avesse confidato proprio a me che non è che ce l’avesse con i Clutter, ma “forse è solo che i Clutter erano quelli che la dovevano pagare per tutti”.
Li “conosco” perché dalla penna e dalla pena di quest’uomo, Truman Capote, è uscita una storia che è insieme tristemente vera e meravigliosamente letteraria, una storia che è talvolta superbamente descritta e talvolta solo pudicamente accennata. Non cambierei neppure una virgola di quel che Capote ha scritto, poiché ogni elemento si incastra perfettamente nell’altro. Non vi è nulla di ridondante e nulla di eccessivamente restio. E’ uno di quei rari casi in cui l’equilibrio delle emozioni e delle parole usate per esprimerle raggiunge la massima efficacia. A sangue freddo, in fondo, non lo si legge, lo si vive.

Ci hanno fatto anche dei film, sai, sul tuo romanzo più famoso. Tre, per la precisione. Uno hai fatto in tempo a vederlo, gli altri due no, perché eri già morto. A me gli ultimi due sono piaciuti. Il primo ancora non ho avuto modo di recuperarlo. Parlano soprattutto della tua persona. E questo sarebbe piaciuto a te.

Sei pallidissimo, Truman. Lo so che stai male. Ma tieni duro, anche se sei di nuovo sprofondato in un torpore comatoso.
Forse è meglio così, perché, sinceramente, devo dirti che i tuoi racconti non li ho del tutto graditi. Li ho letti tutti, ma non sono riuscita a ritrovarvi la tua “musica”, se non a tratti. C’è tanta disperazione e paura e angoscia e spaesamento. I migliori sono quelli in cui concedi a te stesso una “pausa” e immagini, ad esempio, che possa anche esserci un mondo in cui il piccolo Appleseed riesce a indovinare la cifra totale ed esatta dei nickel contenuti in una brocca trasparente semplicemente sedendovi di fronte e, con pazienza, “contandoli”. O quello in cui Tico Feo ce la fa a scappare di prigione, anche se senza la sua amata “chitarra di diamanti”.

Sì, Truman, non vi è dubbio. Eri quasi sempre in grado di “prendere qualsiasi grappolo di parole e di lanciarlo in aria per poi vederlo ricadere nel modo giusto”. Ma non eri in grado di vivere. Nonostante tutte le tue conoscenze famose, nonostante il tuo partecipare con ostinazione a tanti eventi mondani, nonostante la tua intelligenza e la tua bravura di artista, c’era e c’è sempre stato in te un grumo amaro di sofferenza che non si scioglieva mai, che non ti dava tregua, né requie. E quando anche Jack ha finito per abbandonarti, lui, il tuo compagno di una vita, forse hai pensato che nulla valesse più davvero la pena. E ti sei lasciato andare. Io non sono credente, come te del resto. Ma anche solo la semplice morte, senza alcuna promessa di paradiso, sono sicura ti abbia regalato non dico la pace, ma la fine del tuo tormento certamente sì.

Ora ti lascio mano, Truman, perché, sia pur a malincuore, devo andare e tornare nel mio mondo. Non mi sentirai, ovviamente, ma grazie te lo dico lo stesso, perché leggerti è stato un piacere prezioso.

PS: Truman Capote nasce a New Orleans il 30 settembre 1924 e muore a Bel Air il 25 agosto 1984, a soli 60 anni. A sangue freddo resta a tutt’oggi uno dei migliori libri che io abbia mai letto.

One of my favourite writers to date. Capote has the unique ability to move a reader, though they might not know quite why.

I figured I had better hurry up and read my copy of The Complete Stories of Truman Capote while it’s still what it claims to be. In less than a month Random House will be releasing The Early Stories of Truman Capote, a collection of 14 previously unpublished stories written during Truman’s teens and twenties. I’m looking forward to seeing how they compare to the collection I jut finished.

This was a great collection of stories, one of the best by a single author that I have read. Even the least impressive stories herein are better than what many authors can produce.

It goes without saying that a character with as quirky a personality as Truman Capote is going to write stories that do not conform to most people’s expectations. Every story is vibrant and full of characters as well developed as they are unusual. Many are what one would call a slice-of-life sketch and even the ones that lack much plot are intriguing to read as one gets an almost voyeuristic sense that they are snooping into someone else’s life. Other stories read like something out of Twilight Zone or Alfred Hitchcock. Three stories that do an especially good job of showing of the wickedly twisted side of Capote are Miriam, A Tree of Night and Children on their Birthdays.

My favorites, though, were the stories that border on autobiographical. A Christmas Memory was particularly touching. I don’t consider myself unemotional but I never in a million years would expect to find myself wiping my eyes after finishing a story about fruitcakes. Like I said, he’s good. Two other stories dealing with the holidays, The Thanksgiving Visitor and One Christmas offer even more insight into the life of young Truman.

Bottom line: If I was to assign school grades to each story, one or two would be a high C, four would get B's and the remaining stories would all get A’s or A plus. If you have never read Truman Capote, or know him only from In Cold Blood, you really should treat yourself and read these stories.

FYI: On a 5-point scale I assign stars based on my assessment of what the book needs in the way of improvements:
•t5 Stars – Nothing at all. If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.
•t4 Stars – It could stand for a few tweaks here and there but it’s pretty good as it is.
•t3 Stars – A solid C grade. Some serious rewriting would be needed in order for this book to be considered good or memorable.
•t2 Stars – This book needs a lot of work. A good start would be to change the plot, the character development, the writing style and the ending.
•t1 Star - The only thing that would improve this book is a good bonfire.

I'm obsessed with Truman Capote.

When I was at my local bookstore a few weeks ago, I got super excited when I saw a Truman Capote book I didn't have yet! So I bought it on the spot, got home to add it to my to-read shelf and realized......I already had it.

The Complete Stories of Truman Capote was the book.

It's a fantastic collection of all of Capote's early short stories. The best part of his writing is that usually there is a character that is incredibly similar to himself. Most of his stories are somewhat semi-autobiographical without blatantly telling his entire life story. Within this collection, there are many reoccurring themes. The sadness is seeped into the pages of each and every story. In my eyes, writing was a way for Truman Capote to expel his demons. It's beautiful.

This review and other Truman Capote book reviews can be found at A Reader's Diary!

Contains two of PB's All Time Greats :

"Miriam" (1945)

TC can write about kids really well, and as we know, he is suspected of having more than a hand in the writing of "To Kill a Mockingbird" which is all about kids. In "Miriam" we have an original character, a violent ghost girl. I have a list of people right here who I'd love to get Miriam to visit.

"Children on their Birthdays" (1948)

He gives away the punchline in the first sentence, then in the lyrical delirium of the prose which follows he makes you forget all about the fact that you already know the end, so deeply do you fall into the trance, then he knocks you flat on your back when it happens, and tears burst from your ducts.