Truman Capote- Breakfast at Tiffany's

Breakfast at Tiffany's

Penguin Modern Classics

Truman Capote
1958

“You call yourself a free spirit, a "wild thing," and you're terrified somebody's gonna stick you in a cage. Well baby, you're already in that cage. You built it yourself. And it's not bounded in the west by Tulip, Texas, or in the east by Somali-land. It's wherever you go. Because no matter where you run, you just end up running into yourself.” 

I had high hopes for my first venture in to the writings of legendary American author Truman Capote, but even then I wasn't expecting to be so thoroughly entranced by the style, charm and poignancy of the novella Breakfast at Tiffany's. I began the book without any real knowledge of the story or the author. I haven't seen the incredibly iconic 1961 cinematic adaptation starring Audrey Hepburn, I haven't read anything else by Capote, and I haven't seen the Oscar-nominated 2005 Capote biographical film. I did, however, have certain expectations regarding the style of prose, characters and locale, generally based around my impression of American literature of the mid-twentieth century- but also partially from the intensely memorable and stylish black and white images of Audrey Hepburn from the film.

At barely more than one hundred pages long, Breakfast at Tiffany's felt disappointingly short as I finished it, but that was merely a testament to its quality. Capote declines to give his narrator a real name and portrays him as a struggling writer, living in a modest brownstone apartment in Manhattan, It's also hinted that he's gay (which, if I may digress, allows the events of the novella to carry on in the manner that they do, in contrast to the plot of the Hollywood adaptation that I just read) , a series of attributes that resemble Capote's own. It's a simple touch, but served to enhance the realism of these characters in my mind.

Truman Capote

It's through his habitation that the narrator encounters the inimitable Holly Golightly, who shares an apartment in his building. At first he knows only of her reputation, as a New York society girl of immense beauty and popularity, but their first encounter leads to a deep friendship and understanding. It's important that our narrator, or 'Fred' as Holly calls him, doesn't fall in love with her, but is so drawn in by her magnetic, feline personality that he pursues her attention and becomes her confidant. It's through these one hundred pages of Holly's trials and tribulations that I fell in love with the character, as Capote sets his characters against a tumultuous backdrop of events caused by Holly's uncontrollable spirit leading to the eventual bittersweet conclusion.

The strength of characterisation and dialogue was so strong throughout the story that it felt to me like an autobiographical look into a brief, real section of the lives of real people. That might sound obvious and a goal of any good story, but it's not something I ever experience with such purity as I did with Breakfast at Tiffany's. Upon finishing the book I couldn't resist reading the plot of the film, and even though I'll have to see it at some point (and I'll probably enjoy it), I don't like the sound of it.

I'm a huge fan of mid-twentieth century American literature, and reading this novel was one of those reading experiences that shall stick with me forever. It's a case of both tons of style and some serious substance as Capote delicately carves a masterpiece with each word he writes. He's clearly too unique to be so easily compared to some of my current favourites (though I'm going to do it anyway) such as Bukowski, Vonnegut or Auster, but his sense of place and relevance in the pantheon of fiction in general is set in concrete for this blogger. I'll be grabbing anything and everything by Capote I see from now on.

Charles Bukowski- Notes of a Dirty Old Man

Notes of a Dirty Old Man

Virgin

 Charles Bukowski

1969

Other Bukowski Reviews; Post Office - Factotum - Women - Ham on Rye - Tales of Ordinary Madness - Notes of a Dirty Old Man

"no pain means the end of feeling; each of our joys is a bargain with the devil

***

the difference between Art and Life is that Art is more bearable."

After exposing myself to the drug that is Bukowski for the first time with the seminal Post Office, I knew I'd probably love everything he'd ever written. Naturally it took me about a year to start reading more, but by god I've done it, and here's a hastily written review to prove it. I've got three other Bukowski novels in the cabinet now, so I can safely predict that I'll finish reading the complete Bukowski in about forty-two years.

As has been shown here, I'm a fan of reading various collected editions of shorter works by a favourite author, like Orwell, Thompson and Sir Terry, for example, and there's something about the unrelenting power and pace of Bukowski's prose that I felt would make Notes of a Dirty Old Man a memorable read at the very least. One of a few Bukowski compilations, this edition compiles fifty-seven editions of his column published in L.A.'s' short-lived tabloid Open City, published from '67 to '69. Each of the short articles is at least as surreal as the previous one, and I can only imagine and dream of reading it in the original weekly installments. Reading them consecutively as they're published here is almost an overwhelming experience.

As he is widely known for, Bukowski uses his page space to tell kaleidoscopic visions of his real life experiences, with snarling, aggressive narration. Many of the stories are almost completely obscene, and vary in their narrative coherency. On a few separate occasions Bukowski proclaims his disdain for the work of some of his contemporaries, particularly William Burroughs, though it was quickly apparent to me that much of Bukowski's presentation resembles the style of Naked Lunch, in their bizarre odysseys of semi-recognisable beatnik culture mired in surreal expressions of obscenity.

Bukowski is at heart a poet, and much of my enjoyment of this book comes from the power and rhythm of each of his sentences, where sanity is sacrificed for art. As such I read this book in small portions, finding it works better to savour a briefer taste of the strangeness. It was still over quickly though, as I find Bukowski strangely comfortable to read despite the aggression and downbeat exultation of twisted hedonism.

I think I've come over a bit wordy today, I might need a lie down. 

L-Space 4- The Mega-Powers Explode

Like everyone surely is, I have the tendency to display some rather obsessive-compulsive behavior if you catch me at the right time. It's kind of sat on the boundary of eccentricity, looking over the edge into the abyss of possible madness, possibly developed through a lifelong exposure to modern culture as it rushes past at an incredible rate. For me, I've latched onto obsessiveness through order in regards to the excessive amount of it I consume through movies, music, books, comics, and (my biggest, nerdiest obsession) pro-wrestling. I love that stuff.

For years now I've kept really basic lists of books, movies and TV shows I've read and seen, and my iTunes music collection has been meticulously ordered. I have these completely unrealistic expectations that I'll be able to eventually get around to watching all the classic films I've never seen, and I'll hear every classic band I ever felt intrigued by. It's worse with literature though because I know I'll never feel satisfied until I've read everything I ever wanted to and everything I've never heard of that I might love. It's impossible because I probably won't live for another million years.

It's really very annoying when I come across a book that I really want to read for various reasons, but just can't get into it. I don't really have a problem quickly giving up on your everyday garden-variety book, but when it's a recognised classic it turns me in to a bit of a book emo. In case your wondering, the book that inspired this quick rant was Letters from the Underworld by Fyodor Dostoyevsky. Admittedly it's not one of the great Russian's most well-known works, but instead is a small novella.

 

I've never read any Russian literature before. It had been a conscious decision to stay away from the genre because I felt sure that my first taste would lead me on to more and more, and I'd be picking up that many more books to add to the pile. So it felt like a personal moment of sorts when I started reading, chosen simply because of its short length making consumption quicker. The problem was I couldn't find the right mood to read it, meandering through the first few pages without really latching onto it.

I had to abandon it because I knew that otherwise it would sit in limbo forever. In the meantime I binged on graphic novels- completing The Complete Judge Dredd Files Vol. 10, The Walking Dead Book 1, The Boys Vol 7 and Alan Moore's Nemo- Heart of Ice- to my great pleasure. I'm massively tempted to write about them at greater length, but then I'm getting dangerously close to six paragraphs as it is, and I'm lazy. I might do a series review of Moore's League of Extraordinary Gentlemen series (to which the aforementioned Nemo is the latest release) at some point, but the weight of the Discworld series is going to take up my non-random thoughts, non-latest reads posts.

Which reminds me, I should probably go write a Lords and Ladies review. After that it'll probably be back to Chuck Bukowski again.

Richard Matheson- I Am Legend

I Am Legend

Victor Gollancz

Richard Matheson
1954

“Full circle. A new terror born in death, a new superstition entering the unassailable fortress of forever. I am legend.”

It always kind of irks me a little when people refer to the details of a story after only seeing the cinematic adaptation, like the other day when my sister asked me if I'd heard of the film War of the Worlds and I almost through her out of the window. The thing is that it's one of those irritations which is just actually a personal affectation to make myself look and feel like more of a literary snob, and in reality we're all the same and we all do it. I first saw the Will Smith sci-fi horror vehicle I Am Legend a few years ago, and although it's not a particularly brilliant film it did stick in my memory. In the years since, as I grow old and wizened, I learned a little more about fan disapproval of the film, specifically due to it's dovetailing from the original story. Curious to see what the fuss was about, I picked up the book.

Richard Matheson's bibliography is totally alien to me aside from this book, which stands out as the definitive note of his writing career as an individual piece of sci-fi/horror in the same way that The Day of the Triffids was for John Wyndham, or Flowers for Algernon for Daniel Keyes (two of my favourite science fiction novels). Prior to reading it I really had no idea of the influence it had on modern things I enjoy, which is probably my brain subliminally filling it alongside the 2007 film version as merely throw-away entertainment. The modern things I enjoy, by the way, are zombies.

Starring Will Smith.

I Am Legend is a short book, more of a novella, and certainly isn't in the same vein as the action-packed Hollywood version. Instead Matheson uses the elements he chooses to pluck from the horror genre to give an intense character study of a man in the strangest of circumstances, using the structure of events to move him to a climactic realisation that puts the whole book, including its title, into a final philosophical context. In this aspect Matheson's pacing and development is masterful; he introduces the reader to the life of Robert Neville, possibly the last human being left alive and unaffected by the vampiric plague that's swept the world- yes, I did say zombies but they're kind of like a cross between vampires and zombies.

 It's a lonely, harrowing story. Neville's day to day survival is somewhat procedural; he's very well-prepared, intelligent, and safe, having isolated himself in an impenetrable home at night while free to wonder the world during the day. Naturally events don't remain so simple and under control, and it's at the introduction of third parties that the differences between the book and the film really stand out, literally, symbolically and very much thematically. Like every other film starring Will Smith ever, the focus there is on hope and success, but that was a large departure from the original source. I can certainly understand devout fans of the book not enjoying the changes at all, but then a direct adaptation would not have worked, at least not for mainstream audiences.

Ultimately I think it's a fact that I Am Legend is a far greater novel than it was a film. I think the quality of its inspiration on the post-apocalyptic strand of the horror novel cannot be understated, although the quality of the novel and its prose itself doesn't quite match up to that legacy. I certainly recommend it to any fan of horror as both an genre innovator and a good, brief read on its own merits.