“Ma noi siamo terribilmente soli, isolati l’uno dall’altro; tanto feroce è il ridicolo del mondo che non possiamo parlare o mostrare la nostra tenerezza; per noi la morte è più forte della vita, ed essa ci spinge come un vento verso le tenebre, e tutte le nostre grida si mutano in risa senza gioia.”

"Всі ми самотні, моє любе дитя, жахливо ізольовані одне від одного; світ жорстоко кепкує з нас, що ми не можемо розповісти про свою ніжність; для нас смерть сильніша за життя, вона відносить, наче вітер, наші плачі в темряву, насмішкувато перетворюючи іх на безрадісний сміх. Ми набиваємо шлунки помиями самотності, аж поки луснуть кишки, стікаючи кров'ю й зеленим гноєм, а тоді з криками вештаємося землею, помираємо у винайнятих кімнатах, готелях із нічних жахіть, вічних притулках тимчасових сердець'.

У якийсь момент читання цієі книги мене знічев'я осяяло: це ж не просто сумна історія про подорож сироти з дуже жвавою уявою на задушливий південь Америки на зустріч із ніколи не знаним батьком - це ж я читаю незбагненно гіпнотичну південу готику! Вмить моя цікавість запалала більш пристрасно, і почала розкошувати у всіх цих легендах про мерця, що затягає панночок до озера перед надзвичайно популярним готелем, чия власниця зрештою обливає власне ліжко керосином і підпалює себе, а примару-готель заселяють відзвуки колишніх життів, і 'водяні змії повзали серед струн і вичавлювали з гнилого піаніно в танцювальній залі серенади'. Це про ці інші голоси йдеться у назві роману: голос коханця, який перерізав горло молодій дружині у шлюбну ніч, доки поруч звучала піанола; зітхання трьох панночок у закутках покинутого маєтку, замордованих приїжджим янкі; гупання донизу сходами таємничих червоних м'ячиків, які бачить хлопчик у своєму новому будинку і де розростається ще більше його самотність .

До відчуття цієі атмосфери суцільного декадансу докладаються і дивні друзі, які у нього з'являються, - відлюдник із лісу, дівчинка-шибайголова, яка ламає ніс сестрі-близнючці, що підмовляє батька вбити хворого собаку; старіючий 'Доріан Грей' у запрудженій екзотичною вишуканістю кімнаті; дивне видіння нарум'яненоі пані у перуці-хмаринці часів Людовіка XVI, що часом з'являється в одному з вікон.

Якщо ви, як і я, є прихильником цієі задушливо-прекрасної атмосфери американського півдня, вас очікує єдине розчарування від книги - надто вона коротка. Сучасні автори з цього б написали грубенький томик, розгортаючи події , як безкінечний, оповитий павутинням, із запахом прілого листя, старезний сувій.

Готичній таємничості у книзі не поступається красою, до речі, й мовна естетика Трумена Капоте. Навіть у перекладі можна насолодитися його вишуканим стилем і ностальгійно забарвленими роздумами.

'Щастя в коханні - це не цілковита зосередженість усіх почуттів на коханому; людина завжди любить багато чого, а коханий з'являється в житті для того, щоб стати символом цього всього. По- справжньому закоханий у нашому світі бачить в очах коханого, як розквітає бузок, корабельні вогні, шкільні дзвоники, краєвиди, розмови, що запали в пам'ять, друзів, недільний день із дитинства, забуті голоси, чиїсь улюблений костюм, осінь та й усі пори року..."

His writing is so intense, descriptive, his own- that I wanted to like this more. But overall it left me increasingly sad.

Bun scriitor. Pacat ca a scris putin.

Truman Capote's novel is so beautifully written that I found it hard to believe it was his first. There is a lyrical, dancing quality to his writing, like sunlight dancing on waves, that carries you along, e.g., 'He lay there on a bed of cold pebbles, the cool water washing, rippling over him; he wished he were a leaf, like the current-carried leaves riding past; leaf-boy, he would float lightly away, float and fade into a river, an ocean, the world's greatest flood.' His descriptions of his characters are just as evocative. Joel, the boy at the centre of the novel, is very lonely, and your heart aches for him as you read the novel. Joel's mother has died and he is sent to live with the father who abandoned him at birth. He has fantasies about this unknown father that verge on heroic but the reality is as far from them as can be imagined. You wish very much that he will find the love that he craves and he does, but from a most unexpected source.
Ruin is a prominent feature of the story. The mansion Joel's family lives in; an abandoned hotel that he is taken to; the nearest town of Noon City; all are well past their prime and descriptions of them, of which there are plenty, evoke a sad feeling of decay and weariness. Quite a few of the characters are also very lonely.
If a novel reveals anything about its author, I would venture to say that Capote had a very low opinion of his fellow humans but at the same time, a great love of them. Both sentiments come through strongly in this book. The book also deals with a theme that, for Capote in real life, would have consumed much of his early years; that of gender and sexual orientation. Joel is described as effiminate and one of my favourite characters, Randolph, is a .... well, I won't give THAT away. It's a great surprise. Idabel, a girl who befriends Joel, is extremely tomboyish, and seems to hate the fact that she is female.
For all its pathos, you will be curiously warmed by this story at the end. It makes you feel it is worthwhile never giving up hope.

I've read Truman Capote's Other Voices, Other Rooms twice, once through very quickly and the second time at a much slower and thoughtful pace, but still am not quite certain how I feel about it. The first half of the novel simply flies by as the reader accompanies 13-year-old Joel Harrison Knox on his journey from New Orleans to rural Alabama to meet the father who had abandoned him at birth and to live at the decaying mansion, Skully's Landing. The quirky, sometimes blatantly bizarre, behavior of the mansions' inhabitants can be tolerated only because there is still hope for delicate, young Joel Harrison Knox.
It's been touted as a semi-autobiographical coming-of-age story, but it's so much more than that. It is a dark and moody tale populated by a cast of characters that go way beyond mere Southern Gothic eccentricity and who cross the border into the realm of the downright crazy - truly damaged human beings. It is a superbly written story that is full of tragedy, mystery, and a touch of the supernatural.
I do know that I truly dislike the ending. It makes me feel sad, angry, and more than a trifle uncomfortable, all at the same time. What exactly were Randolph's intentions when he wrote the letters that summoned Joel to Skully's Landing? This is definitely not a "happily-ever-after" type of story. Joel Harrison Knox deserved better and I sincerely wished that he'd gotten it.
Regardless of the ambivalence I feel right now, I will be reading this book again . . .

One i think I might need to read again. A few hallucinatory scenes and a gothic confusion between reality and dream sequences. Excellent writing. Lots of unpleasantness and misery.

A southern gothic coming of age story. Don't read this one if you are looking for an action packed plot. Instead, enjoy this book for Capote's flowery prose.

Tedious gothic tropes: isolated hero, remote rundown setting, silent invalid, apparition, snake, midget, whatever.

I'm a Capote fan - I usually enjoy his writing more. I just didn't love Other Voices like I loved Tiffany's/In Cold Blood. To be honest, this book is work. Reading it took a lot of effort and concentration. The writing and story are intricate and layered beyond meaning, at times. It's a glimpse inside his genius - and maybe the lack of mine is why I am diminishing a star. Or, maybe I feel him trying; it's not entirely natural. It's like Eliot's Hollow Men, or what Holden hates about Old Enrie's piano playing - you can see 'em putting it on.

I gave this book four stars because I haven't really been able to stop thinking about it since I put it down. That's a sign of a very good book. I have to say, though, I'm not a huge fan of the prose. But I understand it's part of the Southern Gothic genre, with which I'm entirely unfamiliar, and so I may be being quite unfair there. Admittedly, I'm not a poetry guy and my tolerance for long passages of very rich and colorful metaphors is low; I tend to lose track of what exactly is happening. I understand that's kind of the point, particularly in this story toward the end where Joel is sick with pneumonia, only as a reader you don't know this so it's like you've fallen through a rabbit hole and you're asking yourself, "Where the hell am I? Is this real? Were there a couple of pages stuck together and I missed something?" So I found myself having to go back and reread a lot of these things because I was losing track. Again, I understand that's intentional - I'm supposed to feel confused - but that doesn't make it less frustrating.

As for the story itself, you can read any number of synopses online, including right on Goodreads, so I don't feel like I have to summarize the plot. The book left me with many unanswered questions. Though, that's wrong. I believe that the answers to those questions are fairly clear in the text, but I'm kind of uncomfortable with the implications. Specifically where Randolph is concerned and his role in sending for Joel on Joel's father's behalf when it's understood that Mr. Sansom wouldn't have been able to express the desire to see or know his son.

So it was a thought-provoking read, and I would have loved to have read this and discussed it as part of a class or group. It is also very short, mercifully so given my difficulty with the text. :-) Honestly, I wouldn't have known about it had I not previously read Christopher Bram's "Eminent Outlaws: The Gay Writers Who Changed America" but it earns my recommendation.

Now here again he'd locked the door and thrown away the key: there was conspiracy abroad, even his father had a grudge against him, even God. Somewhere along the line he'd been played a mean trick. Only he didn't know who or what to blame. He felt separated, without identity, and stone-boy mounted on the rotted stump. (57)

But there was no prayer in Joel’s mind; rather, nothing a net of words could capture, for, with one exceptional his prayers of the past had been simple concrete requests: God, give me a bicycle, a knife with seven blades, a box of oil paints. Only how, could you say something so indefinite, so meaningless as this: God, let me be loved.
“Amen,” whispered Zoo.
And in this moment, life a swift intake of breath, the rain came. (59)

Before birth; yes, what time was it then? A time like now, and when they were dead, it would still be like now: these trees, that sky, this earth, those acorn seeds, sun and wind, all the same, while they, with dust-turned hearts, change only. Now at thirteen Joel was nearer a knowledge of death than in any of the years to come: a flower was blooming inside him, and soon, when all tight leaves unfurled, when the noon of youth burned whitest, he would turn and look, as others had, for the opening of another door. (102)

The white face of the afternoon took shape in the sky; his enemy, Joel thought, was there, just behind those glasslike, smoke like clouds; whoever, whatever this enemy was, his was the face imaged there brightly blank. (104)

"They can romanticize us so, mirrors, and that is their secret; what a subtle torture it would be to destroy all the mirrors in the world: where then could we look for reassurance of our identities? I tell you, my dear, Narcissus was no egoist. . . he was merely another of us who, in our unshatterable isolation, recognized, on seeing his reflection, the one beautiful comrade, the only inseparable love. . . poor Narcissus, possibly the only human who was ever honest on this planet." (113)

"Let me begin by telling you that I was in love. An ordinary statement, to be sure, but not an ordinary fact, for so few of us learn that love is tenderness, and tenderness is not, as a fair proportion suspect, pity; and still fewer know that happiness in love is not the absolute focusing of all emotion in another: one always has to love a good many things which the beloved must come only to symbolize; the true beloveds of this world are in their lover's eyes lilac opening, ship lights, school bells, a landscape, remembered conversations, friends, a child's Sunday, lost voices, one''s favorite suit, autumn and all seasons, memory. A nostalgic list, but then of course, where could one find a more nostalgic topic?" (114)

It is easy to escape daylight, but night is inevitable, and dreams are the giant cage. (122)

Shh!, shh!, thinking how wrong to frighten the lovers, and wishing, too, that's she'd waited longer, for watching them it had been as if his heart were beating all over his body, and all undefined whisperings had gathered into one yearning roar: he knew now, and it was not a giggle or a sudden white-hot word; only two people with each other in witness, and it was as though a tide had receded leading him dry on a beach white as bone and it was good at last to have come from so grey so cold a sea. (152)

I never have found a sweet little person. There are children; but I cry sometimes to think little boys must grow tall. (157)

Listen, she whispered, I'm no fool, I know you're alive: unless you give me the answer, I shan't save you, I shan't say a word: are the dead as lonesome as the living? (167)

So sometimes he came near to speaking out his love for him; nit it was unsafe ever to let anomie guess the extent of your feelings or knowledge: suppose, as he often had, that he were kidnapped; in which case the wisest defense would be not to let the kidnapper know you recognized him as such. If concealment is the single weapon then. a villain is never a villain: one smiles to the very end. (171)

Tell me, tell me, who are you? are you someone I know? are you dead? are you my friend? do you love me? (181)