“A conversation is a dialogue, not a monologue. That's why there are so few good conversations: due to scarcity, two intelligent talkers seldom meet.”
~Truman Capote
~Truman Capote
The NYT Obit for Capote:
http://www.nytimes.com/books/97/12/28/home/capote-obit.html
http://www.nytimes.com/books/97/12/28/home/capote-obit.html
My parents had this gigantic walk-in closet. On the right side hung my mother’s clothes, on the left side hung my father’s clothes. They were ordered according to the season. It must’ve been summer when I first read Capote’s In Cold Blood, as I recall being propped up in the back of the closet surrounded by heavy clothing. The wool coats and suits would have been soft and comforting in the chill of winter instead of being a bit stifling in the heat of summer. I corrected that state by turning up one of my favorite creature-comforts, air conditioning
I had taken the habit of retreating to that closet to read; I would read non-stop starting on Friday evening and reluctantly emerge on Sunday to rejoin the real world. My goal was always to finish entire books during the weekend. I wasn’t allowed this pleasure every weekend, as my parents were afraid that my pallor would turn a ghostly-white and I would be deprived of some vitamins that my mother said only came from exposure to sunlight.
That closet was my refuge from the frenetic pace of my sisters and their often noisy activities. I would occasionally allow our dog to enter for a nap, otherwise no one except my parents knew where I had secreted myself.
It was in that closet that I first read a book by Truman Capote entitled, In Cold Blood. His account of murder was raw and savage, and pained me so emotionally...my reaction was so visceral that my personality was forever altered. To this day, stories of murder force me to respond in the same pained, visceral way.
Regarding In Cold Blood, Capote said, “No one will ever know what 'In Cold Blood' took out of me. It scraped me right down to the marrow of my bones. It nearly killed me. I think, in a way, it did kill me.”
A precious young woman was recently murdered in an adjoining county. It has been impossible to ignore the media reports. Her murder has shaken me and everyone in our community. I feel the need to retreat to a closet for refuge and take solace in some insipid comedy to mask the sick feeling that keeps bubbling up from my gut.
I had taken the habit of retreating to that closet to read; I would read non-stop starting on Friday evening and reluctantly emerge on Sunday to rejoin the real world. My goal was always to finish entire books during the weekend. I wasn’t allowed this pleasure every weekend, as my parents were afraid that my pallor would turn a ghostly-white and I would be deprived of some vitamins that my mother said only came from exposure to sunlight.
That closet was my refuge from the frenetic pace of my sisters and their often noisy activities. I would occasionally allow our dog to enter for a nap, otherwise no one except my parents knew where I had secreted myself.
It was in that closet that I first read a book by Truman Capote entitled, In Cold Blood. His account of murder was raw and savage, and pained me so emotionally...my reaction was so visceral that my personality was forever altered. To this day, stories of murder force me to respond in the same pained, visceral way.
Regarding In Cold Blood, Capote said, “No one will ever know what 'In Cold Blood' took out of me. It scraped me right down to the marrow of my bones. It nearly killed me. I think, in a way, it did kill me.”
A precious young woman was recently murdered in an adjoining county. It has been impossible to ignore the media reports. Her murder has shaken me and everyone in our community. I feel the need to retreat to a closet for refuge and take solace in some insipid comedy to mask the sick feeling that keeps bubbling up from my gut.
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