In Cold Blood

I’m reading this book. It’s by Truman Capote.

What a magnificent piece of writing! The reporting is out of this world. It’s like reading a traditional who-dun-it, like a classic Agatha Christie, or Ngaio Marsh, but all the while knowing each moment, each instance, each uttered sentence is a moment in time; in Reality. Blows my mind.

This isn’t an unknown work. In fact i believe both? (Is it just two?) movies on Truman Capote center around his work on this piece. Being flamboyant as he was, its fascinating how deeply he was let into the lives of this midwestern, bible belt town… much less in the early 1950s.  I think that shows a level of tolerance and acceptance that people don’t expect from people anymore.

I’m following the trial now. Almost at the end of the story. The people are so alive in my mind, i don’t need pictures to see them. It’s not just a news story about a multiple homicide. It’s a  story of meanness, madness and desperation. I think its a story of waste. A waste of lives that weren’t lived- because someone ended them for no reason.

Isn’t that a reality that shakes you to your core? Don’t your bones shudder in the fear, not of death, but of death brought on by a fellow human being- with no real motive except to take a life. Like a deer caught in the scope of a hunter’s barrel, who senses the danger, but can’t see it or understand it;  don’t we all walk by the black windows  at night, and feel the senseless, meanness that is outside pressing in- looking for but not finding that sliver or crack in our homes to come in and touch us with its cold, white hand dripping in desperation, anger, bitterness, abandonment,  loneliness, fear, and sometimes plain psychotic pleasure?

http://www.pbs.org/wnet/americanmasters/episodes/truman-capote/introduction/58/

For anyone who is done with the fantasy and fiction we use to hide from the world, here is a masterpiece of writing, isn’t it better to hide from the world in story of fact?

This is how it ends.

” “And nice to have seen you, Sue. Good luck,” he called after her as she disappeared down the path, a pretty girl in a hurry, her smooth hair swinging, shining—just such a young woman as Nancy might have been. Then, starting home, he walked toward the trees, and under them, leaving behind him the big sky, the whisper of wind voices in the wind-bent wheat.”

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