It’s his birthday today.
In Cold Blood put him on the map for all time. His journalism/literature hybrid told the terrifying story of a random murder in Holcomb, Kansas, where an entire family was annihilated in their own home, for absolutely no reason. Capote embedded himself so deeply in the story his entire life was on hold until the murderers (whom he “befriended”) were executed. This took years. His health was wrecked during the endless waiting process. He was shattered from witnessing the execution; he said he would never be the same again. And he really wasn’t. Something essential was lost, burnt out.
Capote’s entry into the literary scene wasn’t really an “entry” at all. Entry sounds gentle, socially acceptable. Capote was never socially acceptable. He BURST onto the scene, fully-formed. He may have been part of the new crop of Southern writers, writing in Southern voices, on Southern themes … a “trend” at the time … but other than that, Capote wasn’t “part of” anything. He was not a joiner. He did not play well with others. Down to the details: The publication of his first novel wasn’t an ordinary event. He wasn’t just a new author on the scene. It was more like: Truman Capote finally ARRIVED. There’s a difference. Much of this was not about his writing at all, but about his persona, his confidence/ego, his open homosexuality, AND – lest we forget – the provocative author photo printed on the back of his first novel Other Voices, Other Rooms:
I mean …
There’s no subtext there. It’s all text.
Capote’s work has meant so much to me over the years. My entryway was the short story “Children on Their Birthdays”, which I had to read in 8th grade English (this seems amazing to me now. I am thankful for an education that challenged me, as well as ushered me into the canon, not just the main paths, but the byways too. I could take it from there.) The short story haunted me. In high school I discovered In Cold Blood – as a matter of fact, I am 95% certain I saw the movie first. Maybe it was the other way around, I don’t know. Either way: In Cold Blood was what HOOKED me, for all time.
But there is so much else to discover. I love his novella The Grass Harp passionately. Mitchell and I both love that book, we read it together. In The Grass Harp, a bunch of misfits in a little town end up living in a treehouse, hiding out from the larger and mostly cruel world. The world, however, does not look kindly upon people who “opt out” of the accepted rules and regulations, and set out – with tiki torches, no shit – to shake those people out of the damn tree. It’s a gorgeous piece of work, romantic and yearning, beautifully written, with a highly tuned sense of the tragic, reminiscent of some of Tennessee Williams’ more tender moments. “Blow out the candle, Laura”, and etc. When Capote got nostalgic (that final chapter of In Cold Blood!), he was often at his very best. See also his beautiful and heartbreaking memoir-style piece about his beloved elderly cousin called A Christmas Memory. He ACHES with love for this eccentric under-estimated woman who loved him unconditionally.
Truman Capote was as famous as you can be as a writer. More so. Very few authors reach this level of fame, Johnny Carson Tonight Show fame. He “came up” in an era when (male) authors were celebrated in a way they aren’t now – people like Gore Vidal, Norman Mailer – these guys weren’t just writers. They were personalities. Of course Capote was friends with many writers, but he was rivals with many more (see: Vidal AND Mailer.) In many cases, other writers stayed far far away from Capote. He was ferocious in his criticisms. Capote mostly palled around with the international elite, the Onassis’, the Paley’s, sailing the Mediterranean in various yachts, etc. It was heady stuff, high-altitude society. He ate it up. But he didn’t seem to realize that his presence on those yachts was conditional. So he made his great error: he published a chapter from his new novel, Le Cote Basque, in Esquire magazine. Capote had been talking for YEARS about his new book: it was going to be about the rich gossipy set in New York, i.e. his friends. He hyped up the book, he got everyone excited, he would insinuate, “You’re in it, darling” or “You make a cameo, don’t you worry.” Everyone not only wanted to read it, they wanted to be IN it. (Only three chapters of this book were discovered after his death. Either he destroyed the rest of it, OR – more likely, in my opinion – he was struggling with writer’s block after the marathon of In Cold Blood, and bragged about a nonexistent manuscript as a way to pump himself up, wish it into reality.)
At any rate: when the chapter from “Le Cote Basque” appeared in Esquire, a BOMB exploded in the New York socialite scene.
“Le Cote Basque” SKEWERED his rich friends. He told all their secrets, including really nasty rumors and speculations. He lampooned them. He made them grotesque. He sneered at them. He mocked them. How on earth he thought they might have been flattered by any of this is baffling. He clearly harbored an ocean of hostility towards these super-rich powerful people, who had him around as a sycophantish playmate. He probably was like, “They will regret EVER having trusted me. I really SAW them.” They did not forgive him for SEEING them. He broke the rules. His entire circle of friends dropped him overnight. He never regained his confidence, and he never wrote anything of note again. The final chapters of Gerald Clarke’s biography of Capote (which you should read), are devastating. Capote is so isolated, desolate. He missed his friends, those friends he went after in “Le Cote Basque.” He felt it was unfair: what did they THINK he was going to say? He was a WRITER, not a gossip columnist!
Still, though: you read “Le Cote Basque” and if you’re a Truman fan, it’s impossible to not think … Truman, what on earth are you doing?
Publishing that chapter was an act of supreme self-destruction and you try to read between the lines to figure out why he did it. Why, Truman, WHY. i.e. “Truman, what are you DOING.”
And finally: I treasure his notorious profile of Marlon Brando. Capote was very very tricky. He wasn’t even supposed to be there. He wheedled his way into an invitation to the “set”, and even though Brando was warned to not go anywhere near Capote, Capote insinuated himself into Brando’s apartment, took no notes, and just observed and listened. He scribbled down notes later. Brando assumed they were just hanging out. Capote, though, was on the clock. In secret. One understands Brando’s irritation at being tricked on revealing so much, but as someone far removed from all of this, I treasure the revelations of that cuh-ray-zee profile, particularly Brando’s comment on what it felt like to become so famous. You rarely hear someone state it so plainly.
While Capote’s ending years are painful to contemplate, he soared as high as it was possible to soar in American letters, and he shot there right out of the gate. A fascinating treacherous man and a wonderful writer.
My introduction to him was not through his books, but his appearances on Johnny Carson, and Rich Little doing an impression of him. I’m trying to think of a writer today who could make enough of an impression to warrant an impression…
Larry – so true about how famous he was, and so instantly recognizable. His celebrity was way more like a movie stars than a writers – who else is in that category? Capote’s rival Mailer, for sure.
I have read that Brando piece a thousand times. I saw what Capote did. He arrived intending to trick Brando. Even enjoying the geishas giving appa pie. He made Brando relaxed. You’re chatting with a pal. Forget that I will type this all in a major magazine for all to repeat.
What a pair, that interview. I love and hate them equally.
I miss you more.
I miss you too – I hope you are weathering these crazy times okay? we should do a Zoom or a Face Time sometime – it’d be hilarious and also so great to see your face again!
Now down to the important things: yes, the Brando piece is just crazy!! Brando is soooo out there, and just spouting off endlessly! If I think “Truman, what are you DOING” about him publishing that gossipy book chapter – then I think “Brando what are you DOING talking to Truman this way!!!” when I read that profile.
So glad it exists! Brando would never be that unguarded again!
Sheila! I’m at the “Clutter House” as I type! Looking forward to seeing you here on the 5th!
LOL!!!!
“This looks like the Clutter House.”
Pause.
“That’s the worst thing you’ve ever said to me.”
SPEAKING OF WHICH – I should have sent this to you:
my friend Emily wrote about driving by the actual house. It’s haunting:
https://grapeflavoredratpoison.wordpress.com/2021/07/03/in-cold-blood/
In Cold Blood is the greatest book I’ve ever read, by far. Saw the movie later. What I feel in my bones that has never been captured, is the understanding of how a small, very very effeminate man ingratiated himself to an entire population in a small town. Effeminacy in men is alway shied away from in Hollywood portrayals. You can easily notice the reductive qualities of both Hoffman’s and Keith’s portrayals, as celebrated as they are. (The worst examples are the two Cole Porter films, all you have to do is listen to one of Coles recordings and it’s shocking how cowardly (yeah, I had to) Hollywood was for both films in erasing the true man.) Capote had to have possessed a charm so strong to overcome rejection, to put people in a comfortable place to gain their confidence. Saying hello for him must have started every conversation off on an uncomfortable footing. Yes he was on TV, but that’s a completely different context, and no one knew who he was at the time he researched for ICB. Male effeminacy is so offensive to so many in our society, and it is that fear which guides so much uptight dysfunctional behavior in all men. Maybe there’s something about southern hospitality that I don’t get. Perhaps the rules around those customs are what allowed him to navigate successfully amongst the people. His love for them is the strongest thread in the novel, and it’s why I am in tears reading the final chapters.
He was a very destabilizing presence and had a somewhat hypnotic effect on his interview subjects. People got sucked into feeling like they were the most important thing in the universe. But he also was a good time – witness his hang out with Marilyn Monroe – or Pearl Bailey – take those interactions with a grain of salt, yes, but he still had insights into women – also outsiders – that other writers did not. Music for Chameleons will always be my favorite – but I came to In Cold Blood early – high school – and will always love it and remember the impact it had on me that first time.
Effeminate, yes, but he was also a serious reporter – who was clearly devoted to the story in a way that could be seen as redemptive to the devastated people in that small town. Seriousness like that goes a long way – as does his clear Southern roots. He wasn’t some nosy snooty Northerner poking around, looking to make fun of them. He was “one of them”. At the same time, he could get into the minds of the murderers, through intimacy with them – which you can feel in that book – part of what gives it its enormous charge. If it were just a portrait of the Clutters – the book wouldn’t be what it is.
Norman Mailer was chasing In Cold Blood with his insider-portrait of Gary Gilmore – but … Gilmore wasn’t as intriguing psychologically as the Clutter murderers – he was just your basic psycho, whereas those two were in a fucked-up folie a deux relationship – with delusions to boot – stuff Capote sensed and expanded upon with compassion – but … never forgetting what it was they did to that family.
The book remains an extraordinary accomplishment.
Capote was a genius at insinuating himself, but until Le Cote Basque this seems to have been unremarked upon. Obviously the Clutter family killers were in no position to complain, what with being dead and all, and maybe that’s why Capote held off on publishing until they were hanged- a moment of self-preservation, perhaps. (It is also probably also true that Capote, a wonderful storyteller, knew full well that his novel wouldn’t work without an ending.) His effeminacy, and his appearance generally probably abetted his knack for getting his subjects to open up to him: he was non-threatening, but also gifted at making other people feel as though they were as intelligent as he was. In conversation he must have made everyone feel as though they were “in on it” with him.
Bill – yes. He had to have been incredibly gifted socially. People let their guards down. Brando, by the time of their interview, was very wary – and rightly so. But Truman insinuated himself into that room, and got Brando to open up in insane ways – it would never happen again.
Much of what he did was very calculated – that author photo! – and his “out”-ness was different than his contemporaries – most notoriously Gore Vidal – or Tennessee Williams, who was equally out – but … they were just different men and couldn’t really connect, even though it seems like they could have. Similar backgrounds, similar inability to mix with normal mainstream society. Capote had nerves of steel in a way that Williams did not. Capote in a way had better survival skills. He was tough as nails. He had a mean streak. He could pal around with cranky macho types like Bogart and Huston – probably by flattering them and also being their little mascot – In a lot of ways, he betrayed his own talent.
Ryan Murphy is hit or miss for me – and not sure if you’ve heard, but Murphy’s planning a new series about “Capote’s women” – all of those society matrons and stars he hung around with – the ones he ended up betraying. (Or, not, depending on how you look at it. A lot of those women used him – and he knew it. So he got back at them in print.) he got used to that world – the wealthy elite world – and it was death to his art.
A fascinating and somewhat tragic figure. The worst part about it is he KNEW he had squandered his gift. That Gerald Clarke bio is just brutal on his final years. It seems that In Cold Blood tapped him out. Some wellspring died up when he finished that book.
Spent time this morning reading your latest posts- Capote, Lewis, Maggie Smith- and just wanted to say thanks. I always learn something. I always come away with a new appreciation for fascinating artists. Your writing has an electricity and reverence for art and artists that always makes it feel like their art is a living breathing thing daring us to pay attention.
Thank you.
what a nice thing to say – I so appreciate you taking the time to read the pieces and to comment. I do think art is a living breathing thing – it lasts. it’s important!! thank you again!