distance has no way
Breakfast at Tiffany's, Truman Capote
My edition of this - liberated (read: stolen) from my aunt's bookshelf, because I believe books are made for reading, not decoration - has four short stories in it: Breakfast at Tiffany’s, House of Flowers, A Diamond Guitar and A Christmas Memory. I don't know if that's customary, but obviously I, being an idiot, thought they were chapters. Regardless.
I'm not sure what to say about them. A Christmas Memory was vapid, inconsequential, with pretty writing - but it sent a chill through me at the last. A Diamond Guitar wasn't half what it set itself up to be, and the scenario itself wasn't believable for what it was. House of Flowers was pure insane. Breakfast at Tiffany's was definitely the best. I must watch the film; I'm curious to see how they made a script out of that.
Holly Golightly was tres fab. It struck me that her dialogue - her way of going on, is very like the way certain people write 'charming' characters. mistful is the most obvious example. The only thing about it is that she was never redeemed, at least in Capote's eyes. He decides she's a phony and a 'time-waster', not anyone else. Then again, Capote - or whoever the narrator in that story is - doesn't set himself up as the most reliable source. For eg, wanting to hit people when they criticise your writing? Not exactly the best way to advance your publishing career, yo.
Plots et cetera aside, his writing is truly gorgeous.
It's better to look at the sky than live there. Such an empty place; so vague. Just a country where the thunder goes and things disappear. (Breakfast at Tiffany's)
On love: You feel as though pepper has been sprinkled in your heart, as though tiny fish are swimming in your veins. (House of Flowers)
Her smile was fragmentary, it clung to her lips like cake crumbs. (House of Flowers)
(I can't help the naughty wistful thought that it's a shame such lush, lyrical prose wasn't attached to stories that are more ... substantial. Then again, it's not like I've read anything else by him. Maybe In Cold Blood is lugubrious enough to rival Eliot. Or, you know. Not.)
I'm most amused by how easy this was to read after slogging through Middlemarch, Love, Oscar and Lucinda, and Kim. When I first liberated (read: stole) this, it was quite the switch from whatever I was reading at the time - Maeve Binchy or Pterry or Meg Cabot or Georgette Heyer, I suppose. It was one of the reasons I abandoned it, short as it is. I'm very proud of myself for not weakening at all in the last month and a half.
Next ... hmm. Finish Madame Bovary, The Inheritance of Loss or Vanity Fair? Or start Sons and Daughters, On the Road or The Godfather? Meh, I'll probably end up falling asleep over the rest of Atonement. (Oh yeah: I made a Solemn Vow to finish all the books in my shelves that were never finished or - in some cases - started. The pain, you guys, is not to be believed. Me/classics/literary masterpieces =/= OT3.)
My edition of this - liberated (read: stolen) from my aunt's bookshelf, because I believe books are made for reading, not decoration - has four short stories in it: Breakfast at Tiffany’s, House of Flowers, A Diamond Guitar and A Christmas Memory. I don't know if that's customary, but obviously I, being an idiot, thought they were chapters. Regardless.
I'm not sure what to say about them. A Christmas Memory was vapid, inconsequential, with pretty writing - but it sent a chill through me at the last. A Diamond Guitar wasn't half what it set itself up to be, and the scenario itself wasn't believable for what it was. House of Flowers was pure insane. Breakfast at Tiffany's was definitely the best. I must watch the film; I'm curious to see how they made a script out of that.
Holly Golightly was tres fab. It struck me that her dialogue - her way of going on, is very like the way certain people write 'charming' characters. mistful is the most obvious example. The only thing about it is that she was never redeemed, at least in Capote's eyes. He decides she's a phony and a 'time-waster', not anyone else. Then again, Capote - or whoever the narrator in that story is - doesn't set himself up as the most reliable source. For eg, wanting to hit people when they criticise your writing? Not exactly the best way to advance your publishing career, yo.
Plots et cetera aside, his writing is truly gorgeous.
It's better to look at the sky than live there. Such an empty place; so vague. Just a country where the thunder goes and things disappear. (Breakfast at Tiffany's)
On love: You feel as though pepper has been sprinkled in your heart, as though tiny fish are swimming in your veins. (House of Flowers)
Her smile was fragmentary, it clung to her lips like cake crumbs. (House of Flowers)
(I can't help the naughty wistful thought that it's a shame such lush, lyrical prose wasn't attached to stories that are more ... substantial. Then again, it's not like I've read anything else by him. Maybe In Cold Blood is lugubrious enough to rival Eliot. Or, you know. Not.)
I'm most amused by how easy this was to read after slogging through Middlemarch, Love, Oscar and Lucinda, and Kim. When I first liberated (read: stole) this, it was quite the switch from whatever I was reading at the time - Maeve Binchy or Pterry or Meg Cabot or Georgette Heyer, I suppose. It was one of the reasons I abandoned it, short as it is. I'm very proud of myself for not weakening at all in the last month and a half.
Next ... hmm. Finish Madame Bovary, The Inheritance of Loss or Vanity Fair? Or start Sons and Daughters, On the Road or The Godfather? Meh, I'll probably end up falling asleep over the rest of Atonement. (Oh yeah: I made a Solemn Vow to finish all the books in my shelves that were never finished or - in some cases - started. The pain, you guys, is not to be believed. Me/classics/literary masterpieces =/= OT3.)