The Books: “Music for Chameleons” – ‘Handcarved Coffins: A Nonfiction Account of an American Crime’ (Truman Capote)

Daily Book Excerpt: Adult fiction:

MusicForChameleons.jpgMusic for Chameleons – by Truman Capote. Today’s excerpt is from a story called ‘Handcarved Coffins: A Nonfiction Account of an American Crime’.

An interesting story – not sure what is real or not – Capote blurs the edges – but one thing’s for certain: he is trying to “get back” into In Cold Blood territory – and yet (this is a judgment) he no longer has the narrative power. He cannot write a narration – in the same cool detached way he was able to in In Cold Blood. He inserts himself into the story – he is a character – and, as you will see in the excerpt – the majority of the story (it’s a novella) is done as though it were a script. It’s interesting to read – it’s a good story, true or no … but this script thing (which he does time and again in this collection) to me is indicative of Capote’s lessening of confidence in himself as a writer. Again, this is a judgment – based on knowing the rest of Capote’s work, and knowing what was going on for him in his life at the time he wrote this collection. He was FLAILING about for just a smidgeon of his old ease … There’s something about Handcarved Coffins that REALLY appeals to me – the main characters – Jake and Addie – are wonderfully drawn, they seem real – and you give a shit about them.

Here’s an excerpt. It’s been years since I’ve read it, so many of the details are lost – but I always remember the bit about the rattlesnakes.


Excerpt from Music for Chameleons – by Truman Capote – ‘Handcarved Coffins: A Nonfiction Account of an American Crime’.

Jake Pepper is a detective employed by the State Bureau of Investigation. We had first met each other through a close mutual friend, another detective in a different state. In 1972 he wrote a letter saying he was working on a murder case, something that he thought might interest me. I telephoned him and we talked for three hours. I was very interested in what he had to tell me, but he became alarmed when I suggestted that I travel out there and survey the situation myself; he said that would be premature and might endanger his investigation, but he promised to keep me informed. For the next three years we exchanged telephone calls every few months. The case, developing along lines intricate as a rat’s maze, seemed to have reached an impasse. Finally I said: Just let me come there and look around.

And so it was that I found myself one cold March night sitting with Jake Pepper in his motel room on the wintry, windblown outskirts of this forlorn little Western town. Actually, the town was pleasant, cozy; after all, off and on, it had been Jake’s home for almost five years, and he had built shelves to display pictures of his family, his sons and grandchildren, and to hold hundreds of books, many of them concerning the Civil War and all of them the selections of an intelligent man: he was partial to Dickens, Melville, Trollope, Mark Twain.

Jake sat crosslegged on the floor, a glass of bourbon beside him. He had a chessboard spread before him; absently he shifted the chessmen about.

TC: The amazing thing is, nobody seems to know anything about this case. It’s had almost no publicity.

JAKE: There are reasons.

TC: I’ve never been able to put it into proper sequence. It’s like a jigsaw puzzle with half the pieces missing.

JAKE: Where shall we begin?

TC: From the beinning.

JAKE: Go over to the bureau. Look in the bottom drawer. See that little cardboard box? Take a look at what’s inside it.

(What I found inside the box was a miniature coffin. It was a beautifully made object, carved from light balsam wood. It was undecorated; but when one opened the hinged lid one discovered the coffin was not empty. It contained a photograph – a casual, candid snapshot of two middle-aged people, a man and a woman, crossing a street. It was not a posed picture; one sensed that the subjects were unaware that they were being photographed.)

That little coffin. I guess that’s what you might call the beginning.

TC: And the picture?

JAKE: George Roberts and his wife. George and Amelia Roberts.

TC: Mr. and Mrs. Roberts. Of course. The first victims. He was a lawyer?

JAKE: He was a lawyer, and one morning (to be exact; the tenth of August 1970) he got a present in the mail. That little coffin. With the picture inside it. Roberts was a happy-go-lucky guy; he showed it to some people around the courthouse and acted like it was a joke. One month later George and Amelia were two very dead people.

TC: How soon did you come on the case?

JAKE: Immediately. An hour after they found them I was on my way here with two other agents from the Bureau. When we got here the bodies were still in the car. And so were the snakes. That’s something I’ll never forget. Never.

TC: Go back. Describe it exactly.

JAKE: The Robertses had no children. Nor enemies, either. Everybody liked them. Amelia worked for her husband; she was his secretary. They had only one car, and they always drove to work together. The morning it happened was hot. A sizzler. So I guess they must have been surprised when they went out to get in their car and found all the windows rolled up. Anyway, they each entered the car through separate doors, and as soon as they were inside – wam! A tangle of rattlesnakes hit them like ilghtning. We found nine big rattlers inside that car. All of them had been injected with amphetamine; they were crazy, they bit the Robertses everywhere, neck, arms, ears, cheeks, hands. Poor people. Their heads were huge and swollen like Halloween pumpkins painted green. They must have died almost instantly. I hope so. That’s one hope I really hope.

TC: Rattlesnakes aren’t that prevalent in these regions. Not rattlesnakes of that caliber. They must have been brought here.

JAKE: They were. From a snake farm in Nogales, Texas. But now’s not the time to tell you how I know that.

(Outside, crusts of snow laced the ground; spring was a long way off – a hard wind whipping the window announced that winter was still with us. But the sound of the wind was only a murmur in my head underneath the racket of rattling rattlesnakes, hissing tongues. I saw the car dark under a hot sun, the swirling serpents, the human heads growing green, expanding with poison. I listened to the wind, letting it wipe the scene away.)

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5 Responses to The Books: “Music for Chameleons” – ‘Handcarved Coffins: A Nonfiction Account of an American Crime’ (Truman Capote)

  1. Elizabeth Hughes says:

    I also found this story compelling. It is one of my favourite pieces by Capote. Lean and spare and tantalizing. I always find myself thinking about it for days after I reread it.

  2. Elizabeth Hughes says:

    I also found this story compelling. It is one of my favourite pieces by Capote. Lean and spare and tantalizing. I always find myself thinking about it for days after I reread it.

  3. tim waller says:

    Capote is a star chameleon. He loves to present himself as a sophisticated New yorker while attempting to define a new style of journalism wrapped in the disguise of fiction while still clinging to his grass harp country roots. Was it done for art, fame, or just a jug of silver? No matter, the man was brilliant, and Ilove his work.

  4. tim waller says:

    Capote is a star chameleon. He loves to present himself as a sophisticated New yorker while attempting to define a new style of journalism wrapped in the disguise of fiction while still clinging to his grass harp country roots. Was it done for art, fame, or just a jug of silver? No matter, the man was brilliant, and I love his work.

  5. tim waller says:

    Capote is a star chameleon. He loves to present himself as a sophisticated New yorker while attempting to define a new style of journalism wrapped in the disguise of fiction while still clinging to his grass harp country roots. Was it done for art, fame, or just a jug of silver? No matter, the man was brilliant, and I love his work.

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