I suppose you think I'm very brazen. Or très fou. Or something.'
Not at all.'
She seemed disappointed. 'Yes, you do. Everybody does. I don't mind. It's useful.
But it's Sunday, Mr. Bell. Clocks are slow on Sundays.
Truman CapoteIt's bad enough in life to do without something YOU want; but confound it, what gets my goat is not being able to give somebody something you want THEM to have.
Truman CapoteMots clés giving
I haven't anything against whores, except this: some of them may have an honest tongue but they all have dishonest hearts.
Truman CapoteHe had no thought og how it was before he came to the farm. His memory of those times was like a house where no one lives and the furniture has rotten away.
Truman CapoteHe had no thought of how it was before he came to the farm. His memory of those times was like a house where no one lives and the furniture has rotten away.
Truman CapoteMy, how foolish I am!” my friend cries, suddenly alert, like a woman remembering too late she has biscuits in the over. “You know what I’ve always thought?” She asks in a tone of discovery, and not smiling at me but at a point beyond. “I’ve always thought a body would have to be sick and dying before they saw the Lord. And I imagined that when He came it would be like looking at the Baptist window; pretty as colored glass with the sun pouring through, such a shrine you don’t know it’s getting dark. And it’s been a comfort: to think of that shine taking away all the spooky feeling. But I’ll wager it never happens. I’ll wager at the very end a body realizes that the Lord has already shown Himself. That things as they are” – her hand circles in a gesture that gathers clouds and kites and grass and Queenie pawing earth over bone – “just what they’ve always seen, was seeing Him. As for me, I could leave the world with today in my eyes.
Truman CapoteMots clés a-christmas-memory
In the courtyard there was an angel of black stone, and its angel head rose above giant elephant leaves; the stark glass angel eyes, bright as the bleached blue of sailor eyes, stared upward. One observed the angel from an intricate green balcony — mine, this balcony, for I lived beyond in three old white rooms, rooms with elaborate wedding-cake ceilings, wide sliding doors, tall French windows. On warm evenings, with these windows open, conversation was pleasant there, tuneful, for wind rustled the interior like fan-breeze made by ancient ladies. And on such warm evenings this town is quiet. Only voices: family talk weaving on an ivy-curtained porch; a barefoot woman humming as she rocks a sidewalk chair, lulling to sleep a baby she nurses quite publicly; the complaining foreign tongue of an irritated lady who, sitting on her balcony, plucks a fryer, the loosened feathers floating from her hands, slipping into air, sliding lazily downward.
Truman CapoteMaybe the older you grow and the less easy it is to put thought into action, maybe that’s why it gets all locked up in your head and becomes a burden.
Truman CapoteThat isn't writing at all, it's typing.
Truman CapoteMots clés humor writing capote
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