I’d heard of Truman Capote, but never read anything by him. A few weeks ago, I encountered a book called The Complete Stories of Truman Capote in a neighborhood library and read it. It contains twenty stories Capote wrote between 1943 and 1982.
I didn’t enjoy them. As incredible a writer as Capote was, I couldn’t get over how subliminally creepy his stories are. The description of the inside of a train carriage in A Tree of Night (1945) is an example:
The coach was a relic with a decaying interior of ancient red-plush seats, bald in spots, and peeling iodine-colored woodwork. An old-time copper lamp, attached to the ceiling, looked romantic and out of place. Gloomy dead smoke sailed the air, and the car’s heated closeness accentuated the stale odor of discarded sandwiches, apple cores, and orange hulls: this garbage, including Lily cups, soda-pop bottles, and mangled newspapers, littered the long aisle. From a water cooler, embedded in the wall, a steady stream trickled to the floor. The passengers, who glanced up wearily when Kay entered, were not, it seemed, at all conscious of any discomfort.
Here is the movie Capote, starring Philip Seymour Hoffman.
Nehaveigur 