Truman Capote
Truman Capote
Truman Garcia Capotewas an American novelist, screenwriter, playwright, and actor, many of whose short stories, novels, plays, and nonfiction are recognized literary classics, including the novella Breakfast at Tiffany'sand the true crime novel In Cold Blood, which he labeled a "nonfiction novel". At least 20 films and television dramas have been produced of Capote novels, stories, and plays...
NationalityAmerican
ProfessionNovelist
Date of Birth30 September 1924
CityNew Orleans, LA
CountryUnited States of America
Adorned with cape, with tricorn, saintly soul singing in librarian tones an enameled song that coolly celebrates her chewing-gum enthusiasms.
But there were moments when she played songs that made you wonder where she learned them, where indeed she came from. Harsh-tender wandering tunes with words that smacked of pinewoods or prairie. One went: Don’t wanna sleep, Don’t wanna die, Just wanna go a-travelin’ through the pastures of the sky; and this one seemed to gratify her the most, for often she continued it long after her hair hard dried, after the sun had gone and there were lighted windows in the dusk.
It isn't writing at all - it's typing
the part that he has been waiting for. He's 38 years old. He's never led a movie successfully. When I say 'successfully,' I mean like to the point where it took root in the culture and became a fixture in the culture ... For all of the respect that he gets, it hasn't happened. And this is a role that required everything he absolutely had. This thing took a lot out of him.
When you've got nowhere to turn, turn on the gas. , "Answered Prayers" (Unspoiled Monsters).
Holcomb stands on the high wheat plains of western Kansas, a lonesome area that other Kansans call "out there.
The good thing about masturbation is that you don't have to dress up for it
I never cared for his writings one whit. Boring ... boring.
it's a well-known photograph. This was 1984, just three months before he died.
Reading dreams. That's what started her walking down the road. Every day she'd walk a little further: a mile, and come home. Two miles, and come home. One day she just kept on.
New York is the only real city-city.
In my garden, after a rainfall, you can faintly, yes, hear the breaking of new blooms.
The wind is us-- it gathers and remembers all our voices, then sends them talking and telling through the leaves and the fields.
I also write the last paragraph or page of a story first. That way I always know what I'm working towards.