cannot conceive a higher priority than a peaceful morning at home, nor arranging one's burial on a continent without hummingbirds. mossadegh:
read breakfast at tiffany's by truman capote. her cure for the mean reds similar to tony judt's swiss chalet: a place nothing bad had ever happened
she was never without dark glasses, she was always well groomed, there was a consequential good taste in the plainness of her clothes, the blues and grays and lack of luster that made her, herself, shine so
i discovered, from observing the trash-basket outside her door, that her regular reading consisted of tabloids and travel folders and astrological charts; that she smoked an esoteric cigarette called picayunes; she survived on cottage cheese and melba toast; that her vari-colored hair was somewhat self-induced
"she says, this is holly, i say honey, you sound far away, she says i'm in new york, i say what the hell are you doing in new york when it's sunday and you got the test tomorrow? she says i'm in new york cause i've never been to new york. i say get your ass on a plane and get back here, she says i don't want it. i say what's your angle, doll? she says you got to want it to be good and i don't want it, i say, well, what the hell do you want, she says when i find out you'll be the first to know. see what i mean: horseshit on a platter"
her bedroom was consistent with her parlor: it perpetuated the same camping-out atmosphere; crates and suitcases, everything packed and ready to go, like the belongings of a criminal who feels the law not far behind
like most of us in a foreign country, he was incapable of placing people, selecting a frame for their picture, as he would at home; therefore all americans had to be judged in a pretty equal light, and on this basis his companions appeared to be tolerable examples of local color and national character
don't wanna sleep, don't wanna die, just wanna go a-travelin' through the pastures of the sky
nude and bleeding a path of bloody footprints, i followed the action as far as the hall. "don't forget," holly managed to instruct me as the detectives propelled her down the stairs, "please feed the cat"
inhabited by melody, some bouncy bon voyage oompahpah
in the spring a postcard came: it was scribbled in pencil, and signed with a lipstick kiss: brazil was beastly but buenos aires is the best. not tiffany's, but almost. am joined at the hip with duhvine $enor. love? think so. anyhoo am looking for somewhere to live ($enor has wife, 7 brats) and will let you know address when i know it myself. mille tendresse
read house of flowers, a diamond guitar, a christmas memory, also by truman capote. like mobile's penitentiary, lima has a robbin island, alcatraz
for the first time to the market in port-au-prince. it was a journey of two days and a night, and she'd walked carrying a ten-pound sack of grain; to ease the load she'd let a little of the grain spill out, then a little more, and by the time she had reached the market there was almost none left. ottilie had cried because she thought of how angry the family would be when she came home without the money for the grain; but these tears were not for long: such a jolly nice man helped her dry them. he bought her a slice of coconut, and took her to see his cousin, who was the proprietress of the champs elysees. ottilie could not believe her good luck; the jukebox music, the satin shoes and joking men were as strange and marvelous as the electric-light bulb in her room, which she never tired of clicking on and off
mean as those years had been, nostalgia touched her
on the straw moonlit pallet where they slept, ottilie was sure that old bonaparte was awake and watching them. once she saw a gummy, star-struck eye shining in the dark. there was no use complaining to royal, he only laughed: what harm was there in an old woman who had seen so much of life wanting to see a little more?
they came from the village, from the neighboring hills and, wailing like dogs at midnight, laid siege to the house. old women beat their heads against the walls, moaning men prostrated themselves: it was the art of sorrow, and those who best mimicked grief were much admired. after the funeral everyone went away, satisfied that they'd done a good job
that was the way with haunts
on parting, it was ottilie who cried the most, though she was glad to see them go, for she knew that as soon as they were gone she would not think of them again
this will give him a good scare
he wore a gold crucifix around his neck. he had a rosary too. the rosary he kept wrapped in a green silk scarf that also held three other treasures: a bottle of evening in paris cologne, a pocket mirror and a rand mcnally map of the world. these and the guitar were his only possessions, and he would not allow anyone to touch them. perhaps he prized his map the most
while the other men were dressing, he sat on the edge of his cot and tuned the guitar. it was strange, for he must have known he would never play it again
armstrong sat on a stump, a chew of tobacco lopsiding his face, and his gun pointing into the sun. he had the tricky eyes of a cardsharp; you could not really tell where he was looking
a few things she had done, does do: killed with a hoe the biggest rattlesnake ever seen in this country (sixteen rattles), dip snuff (secretly), tame hummingbirds (just try it) till they balance on her finger, tell ghost stories (we both believe in ghosts) so tingling they chill you in july, talk to herself, take walks in the rain, grow the prettiest japonicas in town, know the recipe for every sort of old-time indian cure, including a magical wart-remover
do you think mrs. roosevelt will serve our cake at dinner?