{"id":2899,"date":"2005-04-29T07:38:45","date_gmt":"2005-04-29T11:38:45","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.sheilaomalley.com\/?p=2899"},"modified":"2015-04-06T10:27:39","modified_gmt":"2015-04-06T14:27:39","slug":"the-books-a-christmas-memory-truman-capote","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.sheilaomalley.com\/?p=2899","title":{"rendered":"The Books: \u201cA Christmas Memory\u201d (Truman Capote)"},"content":{"rendered":"

Next book in my daily book excerpt:<\/p>\n

\"A-Christmas-Memory.jpg\"We’ve moved out of the “science” area, and now we’re in the “oversized children’s and picture books” area. So next up is an excerpt from Truman Capote’s classic: A Christmas Memory: One Christmas, and The Thanksgiving Visitor (Modern Library)<\/a>\"\"<\/i>. It’s an autobiographical tale, about the only friend he had in his childhood: a 60-something year old cousin – who, maybe, was rather “simple” – or maybe just “eccentric” – He never says. We don’t even care. Truman Capote’s childhood was a pretty bleak one, at least in terms of being loved … and this cousin of his loved him unconditionally. We love her for it. It is told from Truman’s perspective as a 6 or 7 year old boy. And every Christmas, his “friend” and he make a batch of fruitcakes. It is something they save up for, anticipate, dream about … They live in their own little world, together. The book packs a huge punch. It’s Capote at his bittersweet nostalgic best.<\/p>\n

Here’s the opening couple of paragraphs:<\/p>\n


\nEXCERPT FROM A Christmas Memory: One Christmas, and The Thanksgiving Visitor (Modern Library)<\/a>\"\"<\/i>, by Truman Capote.<\/b><\/p>\n

Imagine a morning in late November. A coming of winter morning more than twenty years ago. Consider the kitchen of a spreading old house in a country town. A great black stove is its main feature; but there is also a big round table and a fireplace with two rocking chairs placed in front of it. Just today the fireplace commenced its seasonal roar.<\/p>\n

A woman with shorn white hair is standing at the kitchen window. She is wearing tennis shoes and a shapeless gray sweater over a summery calico dress. She is small and sprightly, like a bantam hen; but, due to a long youthful illness, her shoulders are pitifully hunched. Her face is remarkable — not unlike Lincoln’s, craggy like that, and tinted by sun and wind; but it is delicate too, finely boned, and her eyes are sherry-colored and timid. “Oh my,” she exclaims, her breath smoking the windowpane, “it’s fruitcake weather!”<\/p>\n

The person to whom she is speaking is myself. I am seven; she is sixty-something. We are cousins, very distant ones, and we have lived together — well, as long as I can remember. Other people inhabit the house, relatives, and though they have power over us, and frequently make us cry, we are not, on the whole, too much aware of them. We are each other’s best friend. She calls me Buddy, in memory of a boy who was formerly her best friend. The other Buddy died in the 1880s, when she was still a child. She is still a child.<\/p>\n

“I knew it before I got out of bed,” she says, turning away from the window with a purposeful excitement in her eyes. “The courthouse bell sounded so cold and clear. And there were no birds singing; they’ve gone to warmer country, yes indeed. Oh Buddy, stop stuffing biscuit and fetch our buggy. Help me find my hat. We’ve thirty cakes to bake.”<\/p>\n