People under the impression the discussion of gender and sexuality is a new thing are so wrong. And this book wasn’t some underground gem that’s simmered on the back burner, like so much LGBTQ fiction. It makes you wonder if we’ve gone backward, because this was a huge hit when it was published in 1948, vaulting Truman Capote into the stratosphere. I have loved Truman Capote since the 90’s, when I finally read In Cold Blood and The Grass Harp, but I didn’t re-read this (which I read in high school – just for pleasure, not for class.) What a mistake. I’ve read his other books, but I think this one has taken over pride of place as my favorite. I wish I had reread it ages ago.

I don’t even know where to go with this so I will try and make sense of my feelings. First of all, if you are going to have a coming of age story, you must have either an orphaned or abandoned child, and Joel Knox is both. His father’s exit was first and inexplicable. No idea why he disappeared from his mom’s life. Then his mom dies and out of nowhere, his father writes his aunt to assure he that he can give the boy a healthy, wholesome home. In order to get there, Joel has to get to Noon City, where ‘arrangements’ have been made. Once he gets there, he has to scour the city before he finds the old man, Jesus Fever, who is supposed to take him out to The Landin’, as it’s called, half asleep behind a stable. I wonder what would have happened if Joel never found him? Would he have stayed there all night? Would he just have gone home and figured the kid never showed up?

Once Joel finally makes it there, after a mythical interlude with a pair of twins about as opposite as twins can be, he wakes up in the morning to find his stepmother, Miss Amy, hunting a blue jay that’s flown in through the window with a fire poker. What a welcome. The whole house seems like a dream, and the things that happen in it are misty and confusing. First, there is no mention of his father. He asks to see him and is told his father is ill. Miss Amy will see if he can have a visitor. And then there are the tennis balls that come down the stairs. Then there is Amy’s asthmatic and flamboyant cousin Randolph.

Don’t you think if your parent was paralyzed, you’d be told BEFORE you came to live with him? The adults who are to take care of him introduce this situation in the worst way. There’s no explanation, no talking, Joel walks in and sees this bedbound man in the bed and is told this is his father and this is the way things are. There’s almost a “Now don’t you wish you hadn’t asked? You wanted to see him and here he is. Don’t you wish you had just pretended he didn’t exist?” This is such a southern thing. I don’t know how to explain it, but there is the putting off or ignoring of things unpleasant. They like to pretend it doesn’t exist. I speak of this from experience. It’s like we won’t talk about it, everyone knows it, and if you make me face it, I’m going to make it as unpleasant as possible. And there is a lot of unpleasantness simmering in this house.

The prose in this is gorgeous and dreamy, and often difficult. There’s not much of a plot, it seems like nearly everything that happens happened in the past. What makes this book is the characters.

The first time Joel meets Florabel and Idabel, it’s on the trip to the Landin’. Then he realizes he’d met Idabel in town, being thrown out of the cafe. The two girls couldn’t be more different. Florabel is feminine and pretty, and Idabel is a tomboy. She tells him they can be friends but wants him to treat her as if they were brothers. A couple times she says she wishes she was a boy. Every time we meet her, someone’s giving her crap for how she dresses and acts. They call her unnatural, that she’s not “properly feminine”. She’s loud and raucous and falls in love with a little person working in the freak show of the traveling circus. Joel is confused and jealous. I don’t think he can think of her as an equal – he is always thinking of protecting her in spite of herself, and thinking of her as a love interest. But she doesn’t really arouse those feelings in him – he’s almost pointing out that he should feel them.

Randolph is probably the strongest and most influential character. At times, he’s cruel and snarky. He pretends to care nothing about anything, at other times, he clasps Joel’s hand and begs him to try and like him. He wears makeup (talcum and rouge) and dresses in kimonos. One can only imagine what the people of Noon City and the people at the cafe who threw Idabel out for wearing shorts and men’s shirts would have to say about him. At times he seems in charge, at times he is totally helpless. It’s clear that he drinks too much for his condition (as an asthmatic). He’s often ill and Amy has to care for him.

The cook, Missouri, or Zoo as she prefers to be called, is Jesus Fever’s granddaughter. She came to take care of him some 13 years before, but he hasn’t died yet. All she wants is to get away. She lives in fear of her ex husband escaping the chain gang and returning to finish the job he started. He’s there because he tried to kill her. She becomes Joel’s first friend at the Landing, listening to him and being kind, but she’s not any better than the other two, really. She won’t talk to him about his father, it’s not her business. But what I love about her is that she’s like John Wayne toilet paper. She don’t shit offa nobody, even Miss Amy, who still has the attitude that black people need to be in their place. A little disappointed that Capote had to play the rape card in this. It’s your traditional way of keeping women down or using it as a metaphor for struggle. I mean, she’d already almost been killed by her husband. Isn’t that enough traditional violence against women? Why pile rape on top of it?

Slight spoilers ahead, but if you’ve read anything about what this novel is about, you probably knew these things going in.

The queer lady in the window. This is how she is described to us when we first see her. Joel sees her through the ripples of the glaze and the glare of trees, beckoning him. He’s convinced she’s there. The first thing she reminds him of is his own distorted reflection. Mirror metaphors abound in this, often drawing parallels between Randolph and Joel. Joel is always described in feminine metaphors: pretty rather than handsome, he has a soprano voice, is sensitive and delicate. Zoo is always after him about being manly. I wondered if some of it was outdated gender role stuff, and Capote, as a gay man, pointing out what we now consider toxic gender stereotypes – that if a man is gay he isn’t a man. The woman in the window is most likely Randolph dressed as a woman. But what is she beckoning Joel for? Is it towards acceptance of himself (meaning Joel), acceptance of Randolph, or something sexual? Amy and Randolph mock him when he talks about the lady at first, but Randolph later tells Joel that he knows the lady, but to Randolph, she has always been a ghost. Randolph also tells Joel how he dressed up as woman for a costume party and found himself. Randolph tells him a lot of stuff…

In a way, this is one of the most depressing coming of age stories I’ve ever read. Toward the end, after a lot of trauma (don’t want to spoil it) Joel seems to do the child thing of sticking his fingers in his ears and going “nyah nyah nyah” – kinda like the southern thing all over again – uncomfortable stuff has happened but I’ve dug a little hole here in the sand and I’m going to go into it and stay there because it’s grown comfortable. I know at the end, there is this big reveal that is interpreted as Joel accepting himself as a gay man, but it seemed to me like he was giving up. That’s how it felt. Hiding himself away, like Randolph has and ignoring the horrible things happening out in the world.

It was a beautiful read, I mean the prose is like honey and cornflakes… anyone eat that as a kid? Atmospheric and beautiful, but sad and hard. I’m so glad I reread it.

2nd read beginning 9/14/16 - 9/15

Credo la triste infanzia di Capote si rifletta in maniera incisiva in questo romanzo. Tutti i personaggi sono vere e proprie isole nell'oceano, solitudini che neppure i rapporti instaurati con gli altri riescono a mitigare. Le persone vanno e vengono, entrano in contatto con altre vite solo per separarsene dopo poco. È l'epopea di un continuo e solitario vagabondaggio, che a nulla approda, che tutto cerca e nulla trova. Ma è anche un romanzo che, forse proprio per questa sua trama così spezzata, non mi ha conquistato affatto.

Bellissimo romanzo di formazione, disseminato di riferimenti autobiografici, che l’autore riveste di una fitta rete di simboli di innegabile fascino.
Il viaggio del tredicenne Joel Harrison Knox verso un luogo sperduto nella campagna del profondo Sud degli Stati Uniti, per incontrare il padre che non conosce, è innanzi tutto la toccante vicenda di un adolescente assetato di affetti; insieme, però, è anche una rappresentazione paradigmatica del processo di crescita, ovvero dell’abbandono definitivo dell’ingenuità ovattata propria dell’infanzia per l’acquisizione dell’autonomia e di una fiera consapevolezza finalmente adulta.
Sia nei temi che nei toni, il racconto mutua elementi caratteristici dei generi letterari più disparati: dal gotico al fiabesco, dall’avventura al mistery; con imprevedibili esiti di straniamento e di suspense.
Il protagonista, nel suo candore e nel suo sgomento, viene proiettato in un ambiente ignoto, imprevisto e sconcertante; una specie di non-luogo, lontano dalle consuetudini del mondo civilizzato e abitato da personaggi eccentrici e ambigui. In questa atmosfera come sospesa tra realtà e sogno (o incubo?) si acuiscono le sue paure e si dilata il suo senso di solitudine; mentre sullo sfondo prende forma un paesaggio di chiara eco faulkneriana, che riflette al contempo la magnificenza e il declino di un mondo e delle sue presunte certezze.
Grande letteratura.

Я б ніколи не подумала, що у Капоте такі прекрасні поетичні художні описи..ух, слова просто розливались і формували ці літні, спекотні картинки, немов марево над обрієм.
я так занурилась в цю історію, ніби сама бігла з дітьми до мандрівного цирку за пагорбом. Надзвичайно кінематографічно!
І ще ця прекрасна сцена зі старим Джізусом, який вже при смерті, але намагається зігрітись біля каміна
"- Погуцай моє крісло, синку, - попросив чоловік скрипучим голосом, - це так заспокоює...ніби я їду на фірі й попереду далека дорога. - Кімнату освітлювала гасова лампа. Крісло кидало на стіну тінь і тихенько, дрімотливо шурхотіло."

Sometimes childhood can be seen in a Gothic light.

The windows of the house are cracked and shattered, hollow as eyeless sockets; a rotted balcony leans perilously forward, and yellow sunflower birds hide their nests in its secret places; the scaling outer walls are ragged with torn, weather-faded posters that flutter when there is a wind. Among the town kids it is a sign of great valor to enter these black rooms after dark and signal with a match-flame from a window on the topmost floor.

Although Other Voices, Other Rooms doesn’t feature anything supernatural or otherworldly it boasts an enchantingly morose Gothic attitude.

It was at this point that he saw the queer lady. She was holding aside the curtains of the left corner window, and smiling and nodding at him, as if in greeting or approval; but she was no one Joel had ever known: the hazy substance of her face, the suffused marshmallow features, brought to mind his own vaporish reflection in the wavy chamber mirror. And her white hair was like the wig of a character from history: a towering pale pompadour with fat dribbling curls.

The atmosphere of gloomy enigma is mysteriously magnetizing.
And as every Gothic novel should do Other Voices, Other Rooms contains a dire secret.
A child is a seed of an adult…

Esta novela transcurre en el sur que le vio nacer y tiene algo de autobiográfico. El joven Josh, que vive con su madre hasta su muerte y luego con una especie de criada/tía, se marcha a vivir con su padre que les abandonó años atrás. El padre le envía una carta en la que le invita a vivir con él y su nueva esposa. Josh está lleno de ilusiones y esperanzas por conocer a su padre, vivir con él y va imaginando todo lo que hará con él pero al llegar al sur, al Desembarcadero, a la casa de su padre se va encontrando rodeado de personajes extraños, misteriosos, casi mágicos. La narración va entrando poco a poco en un lugar mágico, en un ambiente claustrofóbico en el que nada tiene que ver con la realidad, ni lo que ocurre ni las reacciones de los personajes. Hay un cierto temor pero también una atracción casi pecaminosa en seguir ahí. Josh (y el lector) busca encontrarse a gusto, gente que le quiera, tener tranquilidad y, sobre todo, encajar. Josh lo intenta con todas sus fuerzas si conseguirlo. Y el lecto comparte ese desasosiego todo el tiempo.

«-Permíteme que comience diciendo que yo estaba enamorado. Una confesión corriente, es verdad, pero no un hecho ordinario, porque muy pocos de nosotros aprendemos que amor es ternura, y que ternura no es, como muchos sospechan, piedad. Y poquísimos de entre nosotros sabemos que la felicidad en el amor no es la concentración absoluta de todas alas emociones en otra. Uno siempre debe amar muchas cosas que el amado solo puede simbolizar. Los verdaderos amados del mundo son, a los ojos de sus amantes, lilas en flor, fanales de barcos, campanas de escuela, un paisaje, conversaciones recordadas, amigo, el domingo de un niño, voces perdidas, el traje favorito de uno, el otoño y todas las estaciones, la memoria, sí (porque es la tierra y el agua de la existencia) la memoria. Una lista nostálgica pero ¿dónde podría encontrarse un tema más nostálgico?»

(На снимката е Труман Капоти. Това е ултра провокативната (уж) фотография, красяща корицата на първото издание на книгата – снимка, която разбунва духовете, но – според мен – не заради сексуалността си, както намеквали критиците тогава, а заради младостта на автора; постоянно трябваше да си припомням колко е бил млад Капоти, когато е писал "Други гласове, други стаи".)

  

Прочетох "Други гласове, други стаи" във време, в което съзнанието е меко и податливо на влияния (не че нещо ми гарантира, че това време не се удължава до безкрайност, но нека си позволим това условно разграничение). 15–16-годишното ми аз беше омагьосано от моженето на Капоти; но като с повечето любими автори, ми е останал само един привкус, едно определено пропукване на времето, едно конкретно пречупване на слънчевите лъчи в онези мудни следобеди, които ни принадлежат само докато сме много, много млади. Капоти е преди всичко младост, лято, дълъг ден, в който слънцето прежуря косата, а косата залепва за челото. Един полъх, който денят оставя по кожата като целувка – с обещание за връщане, разбира се.

И ето, връщам се, пет години по-късно, а случайната ни среща с тази любима книга, изчерпана от тираж, препоръчвана до пресъхване, търсена (но не лудо, признавам, малко мързеливо я чаках да ме открие отново) се случва в мъртвото време на неделя следобед, в един кашон на Славейков, със снимка на Симон Варсано на корицата.

"Други гласове, други стаи" звучи еднакво важно – тогава и сега. Понеже още се търся със същото настървение; ровя се в себе си, преобръщам се с хастара навън; и всякак ме обзема безпокойството; ту се прегръщаме, ту се отблъскваме (със себе си). Такава е младостта – напукана, нащърбена, немирна.
А книгата е история за порастването и за опитите да се приемеш (и да не изглежда като примиряване, а като сдобряване със себе си; да минеш през "най-интересния въпрос – какво стана с мен" (и тук винаги си правя междутекстова връзка с Г. Господинов и неговото "Живи ли са онези, които сме били?"; за да стигнеш в крайна сметка, задъхан, но триумфиращ до едно "Приличам на себе си!" – и да няма по-смислено, по-вярно и по-естествено нещо от това.

Капоти ми е важен и защото – сега, години по-късно, препрочитайки го, правейки навярно някакъв опит да препрочета и себе си, макар и фрагментарно, макар и не съвсем – съзнавам колко е повлиял върху собствения ми маниер на писане, на говорене, на общуване, на споделяне, на светоусещане, на влюбване. Без да искам да си лепвам етикети – просто това нищо-случване, тази мудност, тази бавност, тази разпиляност, тази образност (така не се имам за човек на образите и все пак те винаги се разполагат най-щедро в главата ми).

Разкош, но и непретенциозност. Снобарщина, но и човечност. Непосилна тежест и в същото време освобождаваща, жизнеутвърждаваща лекота – това са само щрихи на обичта ми към Труман.

Обичам тази книга – заради момичето, което съм била, когато съм я прочела за първи път и заради момичето, което я чете сега; заради момичето (а може би някой ден ще се сдобия със смелост да се зова жена, та и заради нея), което ще прочете книгата след години. Заради стаите на съзнанието ми, в които тази книга винаги ще подрежда бъркотията и заради шепота на гласовете на момичетата, дето съм била.

really good for most of it but fell off in the last 1/4 :/

For starters, My thanks to the folks at the  On the Southern Literary Trail group for giving me the opportunity to read and discuss this and many other fine books.

This is Truman Capote’s first novel and it shows, for reasons both good and bad. On the good side, it shows that, even at the tender age of 23, Capote could didn’t need anywhere near a thousand words to paint a picture. With just half a paragraph he could pluck you out of your easy chair and plop you down beside a dusty country road leading to nowhere. It is easy to see the places that he is describing.

It is also easy to see that much of what he is writing is, if not autobiographical, at least about himself. Readers can, with the clarity of hindsight, sense that many parts of the story were written by a young man struggling to come to terms with an identity that many are reluctant to accept even today. Also evident was his portrayal of the pain and uncertainty of a boy who spent his life being shuttled from one guardian to another. Those familiar with To Kill a Mockingbird might recall the character of Dill who lived just such a life and, like Joel, was prone to telling imaginative tales about his life. For those who don’t know, Harper Lee based the character of Dill on her lifelong friend, Truman capote.

Unfortunately, Capote’s inexperience shows when it comes to the overall story line. While he is incredible at presenting vignettes, in the long run the story bogs down in a surreal mire that cannot decide between southern gothic or decadent drollery. In either case, it isn’t somewhere that you want a plot to stay it.

Bottom line: I’ve read every Capote story ever published and devoured In Cold Blood twice which is fortunate because I have faith in his ability to write. If I didn’t, this might be the first and last Capote novel I ever read. I’m not saying that you shouldn’t read it or that I don’t recommend it. I’m just saying that you should not judge Truman Capote’s career solely on this book. You would be doing a disservice to both him and yourself.
FYI: On a 5-point scale I assign stars based on my assessment of what the book needs in the way of improvements:
*5 Stars – Nothing at all. If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.
*4 Stars – It could stand for a few tweaks here and there but it’s pretty good as it is.
*3 Stars – A solid C grade. Some serious rewriting would be needed in order for this book to be considered great or memorable.
*2 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.
*1 Star – The only thing that would improve this book is a good bonfire.

У недоумків, невротиків, злочинців і, мабуть, художників, є дещо спільне: непередбачуваність і якась спотворена невинність.

Чи любите ви твори Стівена Кінга так сильно, як люблю їх я? Чи вважаєте ви його історії страшними? У випадку Кінга легко говорити про страх, адже у доробку автора декілька десятків книг, здатні викликати змішані емоції жаху, занепокоєння чи тривоги. Але мені цю твори видаються моторошним лише вкупі зі свідомим налаштуванням себе на характер розповіді. Бо описані там події, зазвичай, не є чимось буденним, що ти можеш уявити як таке, що могло статися за рогом твого будинку чи у селі твоєї бабусі. Тому сьогодні я хочу поговорити про іншого автора та його хвилюючу буденною реальністю книгу. Адже ніщо на світі не може налякати так сильно, як справжнє життя, без літературних прикрас чи щасливих кінцівок.

У потрісканих вікнах віддзеркалювався сад привидів, світ вечірньої заграви, де покручений плющ стікає зі зруйнованих колон, а павутиня саваном ховає під собою все навколо.

Маю підозру, що фільм "Сніданок у Тіффані" відомий набагато більшому числу людей, ніж однойменний роман, екранізацією якого є ця романтична комедія. Автора цього роману - Трумен Капоте (справжнє ім'я Трумен Стрекфус Персонс), вважають одним з кращих прозаїків XX століття, а один з його перших творів - "Інші голоси, інші кімнати" - саме тією роботою, що допомогла йому миттєво злетіти на міжнародну літературну сцену. Єдиний моральний стандарт, відомий літературі - це правда, і саме правдива глибина цієї книжки робить її такою визначною. Власне, тому я і приділяю стільки уваги вступу про справжність прийняття страху. І мова тут не про якісь моторошні сцени насильства, містичних персонажів чи щось інше, до чого можна прикріпити уособлення цього страху. Так, звісно було б простіше.

Будь-яке кохання - природне та прекрасне, так закладено в людській природі; лише лицеміри можуть звинувачувати людину у тому, що вона кохає - невігласи в почуттях і праведні заздрісники, які так піклуються про інших, що плутають стрілу, націлену в небеса, зі вказівником до пекла.

Поки фабула книги навіює очікування чіткої розв'язки, розділ за розділом вся ця ясність втрачає свої контури та орієнтири. Уявіть, що ви знаходитеся на перегляді вистави, де картинка та звук синхронізовані між собою. З кожною хвилиною завіса потроху опускається, залишаючи вам лише звук та вашу уяву, роль якої - розпізнати, що відбувається за кадром, в інших кімнатах, у яких так мало щастя і так багато горя? У яких інші голоси лунають тільки того, аби розповісти про трагедію, що ламає життя навпіл, залишаючи в очікуваннях чогось гіршого. Чи, хоча б такого, від чого не хочеться писати листи до знайомих по всьому світу, жаліючись на складну долю, що випала на твій молодий вік.

До народження - то що ж це за часи такі були? Такі самі, як тепер, і, коли вони помруть, залишатимуться незмінними: ці дерева, це небо, ця земля та жолуді, сонце й вітер залишатимуться такими самими, і лише вони із серцями, що розсипаються на порох, змінюватимуться.

Трумен Капоте "Інші голоси, інші кімнати"

Quite a difficult book. 3-4 stars for now.

I loved this when I first read it in my early 20's, but I couldn't remember anything about it as I reread it. I really liked it this time around, primarily for the poetic and magical writing that placed me right there – sights, sounds, smells - in this dreamlike Southern Gothic story.

Thirteen-year-old Joel Knox recently lost his mother and is living with his Aunt Ellen in New Orleans. One day a letter from his father, who had not been heard from for twelve years, summons Joel to Skully’s Landing, Alabama to live with him . . . permanently. It is no easy trick to get there – days of trains, buses, a supply truck get him to the nearest town where no one is present to meet him. Finally, a mule-drawn cart driven by Jesus Fever, a wizened 104-year-old black man who works for his father, shows up to drive Joel to The Landing. It’s late at night and Jesus falls asleep at the wheel, so to speak, but John Brown the mule guides them safely home.

“Relaxed as a rag doll, Joel was stretched on a croquer-sack mattress, his legs dangling over the wagon’s end. A vine-like latticework of stars frosted the southern sky, and with his eyes he interlinked these spangled vines till he could trace many ice-white resemblances: a steeple, fantastic flowers, a springing cat, the outline of a human head and other curious designs like those made by snowflakes. There was a vivid, slightly red-three quarter moon; the evening wind eerily stirred shawls of Spanish moss which draped the branches of passing trees. Here and there in the mellow dark fireflies signaled one another as though messaging in code. He listened contented and untroubled to the remote singing-saw noise of night insects.”

Sadly, this is likely the last time he will be contented and untroubled until the very end of the story of his first months at The Landing. Joel had left New Orleans with optimism and but arrives with a building sense of dread, confirmed by what he sees and the complete dislocation he experiences. A crumbling mansion, a small group of very strange people living on the outer fringes, no sight of his father, and no indication that anyone is ever going to tell his father’s whereabouts. Perpetually drunk, cross-dressing cousin Randolph, Miss Amy his absent-when-present step-mother, Jesus Fever and his daughter Zoo who cook and clean and hold Sunday church service for three, two girls from down the way Florabel and Idabel Thompkins (based on Capote’s friend Harper Lee), and Little Sunshine another old black man (and possible lover of Randolph) who lives in the crumbling Cloud Hotel – all these characters swirl around Joel as he becomes more and more lost and lonely, only desiring to be loved and to belong somewhere. Early on there was so much to fear for Joel given the strikes against him in this weird place, where just when you think it can’t get any weirder, it becomes completely bizarre (hallucinatory as another GR reviewer called it). But this is truly a coming of age story, of Joel realizing and celebrating who he is. And since this is somewhat autobiographical for Capote, the “who he is” makes complete sense and perhaps he couldn’t have discovered himself anywhere else. I finished this slim volume feeling optimistic that Joel had found himself and would be ok.