I’ve tried that. I’ve tried aspirin, too. Rusty thinks I should smoke marijuana, and I did for a while, but it only makes me giggle. What I’ve found does the most good is just to get into a taxi and go to Tiffany’s. It calms me down right away, the quietness and the proud look of it; nothing very bad could happen to you there, not with those kind men in their nice suits, and that lovely smell of silver and alligator wallets. If I could find a real-life place that made me feel like Tiffany’s, then I’d buy some furniture and give the cat a name.
Truman CapoteStichwörter: serenity escapism
You don't understand. You've never hated anybody.
No, I never have. We're allotted just so much time on earth, and I wouldn't want the Lord to see me wasting mine in any such manner.
Stichwörter: inspirational
The instant of petrified violence that sometimes foreruns a summer storm saturated the hushed yard, and in the unearthly tinseled light rusty buckets of trailing fern which were strung round the porch like party lanterns appeared illuminated by a faint green inward flame.
Truman CapoteNow listen to me, Buddy: there is only one unpardonable sin - deliberate cruelty. All else can be forgiven. That, never.
Truman CapoteAnnabel played and sang it; she was the oldest of the sisters and the loveliest, though it was a chore to pick among them, for they were like quadruplets of unequal height. One thought of apples, compact and flavorful, sweet but cider-tart; their hair, loosely plaited, had the blue luster of a well-groomed ebony racehorse, and certain features, eyebrows, noses, lips when smiling, tilted in an original style that added humor to their charms. The nicest thing was that they were a bit plump: "pleasingly plump" describes it precisely.
Truman CapoteDon't wanna sleep, don't wanna die, just wanna go a-travellin' through the pastures of the sky
Truman CapoteIt is well known that women outlive men; could it merely be superior vanity that keeps them going?
Truman CapoteOh, I adore to cook. It makes me feel so mindless in a worthwhile way.
Truman CapoteRoyal summoned mourners. They came from the village, from the neighboring hills and, wailing like dogs at midnight, laid siege to the house. Old women beat their heads against the walls, moaning men prostrated themselves: it was the art of sorrow, and those who best mimicked grief were much admired. After the funeral everyone went away, satisfied that they'd done a good job.
Truman CapoteStichwörter: house flowers grief satisfaction funeral phonies
To me, the greatest pleasure of writing is not what it’s about, but the inner music that words make.
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