Verena's closed quiet windows loomed above us; we moved cautiously past them and silently out the gate. A fox terrier barked at us; but there was no one on the street, and no one saw us pass through the town except a sleepless prisoner gazing from the jail. We reached the field of Indian grass at the same moment as the sun. Dolly's veil flared in the morning breeze, and a pair of pheasants, nesting in our path, swept before us, their metal wings swiping the cockscomb-scarlet grass. The China tree was a September bowl of green and gold: Gonna fall, gonna bust our heads, Catherine said, as all around us the leaves shook down their dew.
Here was a deep and mellifluous voice - in stark contrast to Capote's tweetybird twang, which I'd heard, and sneered at, on Johnny Carson. (I'd even laughed at that voice as a small child in the '50s, in the guise of Ernie Kovacs' Capote-inspired caricature, "Percy Dovetonsils.") Capote's writing obliterated any such prejudice. Within the space of three months, I devoured everything of his that was in print - Breakfast at Tiffany's, In Cold Blood, Other Voices, Other Rooms (his first novel), scores of essays, the infamous Marlon Brando interview (so revealing the actor never gave another as candid), and a slew of short stories that, among deeper attributes, demonstrated their creator's good ear for titles: "A Tree of Night," "Children on Their Birthdays," "A Diamond Guitar."
My head at 20 was a crowded bookshelf in which Nabokov, Hemingway, Salinger, Fitzgerald, Flannery O'Connor, J.F. Powers, Katherine Anne Porter and Joan Didion all vied for attention. But Capote's preeminence stemmed, in my mind, from a simple fact: Ordinary people read him. Every other writer I loved was almost exclusively the beloved domain of other writers and artists. In Cold Blood was a book my grandmother (a formidably impatient reader who chucked Dr. Zhivago by page 30) read cover to cover. Myself, I marveled at the book's vastness and drive, its passionate exactness - a conscious effort by Capote, after his hero Flaubert. Any writer who could speak to my subtlest, loftiest ambitions and yet make Nana sit still for 343 pages sets an example I was keen to comprehend.
I've been thinking a lot about Capote these past several weeks, provoked by George Plimpton's new book, Truman Capote. Partly a biography, mostly an oral history, it evokes an era as much as a man and is best described by its subtitle: "In Which Various Friends, Enemies, Acquaintances, and Detractors Recall His Turbulent Career."
Capote's life, like Napoleon's, reads like a novel when laid out in chronological order, and has already made for several excellent books. The most thorough of these is Gerald Clarke's 1986 Capote; the most insightful is poet John Malcolm Brinnin's memoir from the same year, Dear Heart, Old Buddy. Plimpton's is the most entertaining.
Born in 1924, cast off among Alabama cousins by his divorced, high-living parents, Capote was marked by a desolate sense of rejection from birth, for which he compensated with a flair for storytelling. After his mother remarried in the early 1930s, he was taken north, where he spent his adolescence miserably bouncing in and out of various prep schools but developing with prodigious speed as a professional writer. By 20 he was publishing short stories in major magazines - a quick path to fame in the mid-1940s. Before he had published so much as one book, Life magazine ran a full-page photo of Capote in a roundup of promising writers. Gore Vidal, who had published a book, was given mention the size of a postage stamp on the following page - sparking a lifelong enmity between the two. In 1948, when President Truman's bid for reelection looked doomed, one Missouri man wrote a letter to the editor: "Your newspaper seems to be full of two things these days - Truman Capote and Truman Kaput."
Through the 1950s, Capote courted wealth and celebrity. By the early '60s, he was engaged in the six-year struggle to research and write In Cold Blood. A tiny item in a New York paper about the slaughter of a wealthy farmer and his family had lured Capote to Kansas, on a hunch. There, he interviewed everybody involved: the last to see the doomed family alive; the townfolk and police who discovered the bodies; the detectives who worked around the clock to crack the case, and, when they succeeded, the two killers - Perry Smith and Dick Hickock. In Perry, the runty, artistically gifted misfit who most likely pulled the trigger in all four killings (accounts differ, Rashomon-style), Capote discovered a nightmarish mirror image of himself. Perry's voice takes over the book, combining seamlessly with Capote's impeccable sense of rhythm: "Just before I taped him," Perry says of the wealthy farmer, "Mr. Clutter asked me - and these were his last words - wanted to know how his wife was, if she was all right, and I said she was fine, she was ready to go to sleep, and I told him it wasn't long till morning, and how in the morning somebody would find them, and then all of it, me and Dick and all, would seem like something they dreamed. I wasn't kidding him. I didn't want to harm the man. I thought he was a very nice gentleman. Soft-spoken. I thought so right up to the moment I cut his throat."