I’m very grateful to be able to read.
Last night, I finished reading The Early Stories of Truman Capote. I totally enjoyed it.
These were stories like the title says, early writings. Many may disagree, but for me it seemed that not every story was fully formed.
I could see how he was honing his writing chops —teasing the reader, and finding his voice. Capote told just enough of each story for me to want more.
Every story could have been a full novel.
What was odd as I was reading, I did not find Capote, on the page. Oh, the book is clearly Capote. His southernness and way with words was on full display.
And even with a photo of a very young Capote, on the dust jacket of the book, the only voice or image, I could see or hear, was that of Philip Seymour Hoffman.
People make their mark.
We remember and move on.
Then at the strangest time, a memory.
Okay, not a haiku… and if I took two more days, I might have a decent post here, but instead, I’m going to find a Philip Seymour Hoffman movie, and remind myself that addiction is hell.