There is only one unpardonable sin–deliberate cruelty. All else can be forgiven.
TRUMAN CAPOTEThere is only one unpardonable sin–deliberate cruelty. All else can be forgiven.
TRUMAN CAPOTEThere were hints of sunrise on the rim of the sky, yet it was still dark, and the traces of morning color were like goldfish swimming in ink.
TRUMAN CAPOTEI can see every monster as they come in.
TRUMAN CAPOTEReading dreams. That’s what started her walking down the road. Every day she’d walk a little further: a mile, and come home. Two miles, and come home. One day she just kept on.
TRUMAN CAPOTEI always write the end of everything first. I always write the last chapters of my books before I write the beginning. Then I go back to the beginning. I mean, it’s always nice to know where you’re going is my theory.
TRUMAN CAPOTEThe quietness of his tone italicized the malice of his reply.
TRUMAN CAPOTEWriting has laws of perspective, of light and shade just as painting does, or music. If you are born knowing them, fine. If not, learn them. Then rearrange the rules to suit yourself.
TRUMAN CAPOTEAprils have never meant much to me, autumns seem that season of beginning, spring.
TRUMAN CAPOTEFinishing a book is just like you took a child out in the back yard and shot it.
TRUMAN CAPOTEWe all, sometimes, leave each other there under the skies, and we never understand why.
TRUMAN CAPOTEA man who doesn’t dream is like a man who doesn’t sweat. He stores up a lot of poison.
TRUMAN CAPOTEI prefer to underwrite. Simple, clear as a country creek.
TRUMAN CAPOTEIt is very seldom that a person loves anyone they cannot in some way envy.
TRUMAN CAPOTEEverybody has to feel superior to somebody,” she said. “But it’s customary to present a little proof before you take the privilege.
TRUMAN CAPOTEPast certain ages or certain wisdoms it is very difficult to look with wonder; it is best done when one is a child; after that, and if you are lucky, you will find a bridge of childhood and walk across it.
TRUMAN CAPOTETo me, the greatest pleasure of writing is not what it’s about, but the inner music that words make.
TRUMAN CAPOTE