âThe Boy With the Thorn in His Sideâ promo poster - 1985
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@fuckyescapote
âThe Boy With the Thorn in His Sideâ promo poster - 1985
I DIDNâT KNOW THIS EXISTED
overexcited

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Babe Paley + Truman Capote
But Iâm not a saint yet. Iâm an alcoholic. Iâm a drug addict. Iâm homosexual. Iâm a genius.
Truman Capote (via cydalima)
Let me begin by telling you that I was in love. An ordinary statement, to be sure, but not an ordinary fact, for so few of us learn that love is tenderness, and tenderness is not, as a fair proportion suspect, pity; and still fewer know that happiness in love is not the absolute focusing of all emotion in another: one has always to love a good many things which the beloved must come only to symbolize; the true beloveds of this world are in their loverâs eyes lilac opening, ship lights, school bells, a landscape, remembered conversations, friends, a childâs Sunday, lost voices, oneâs favourite suit, autumn and all seasons, memory, yes, it being the earth and water of existence, memory.
Other Voices, Other Rooms by Truman Capote (via lostinthesounds)

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Writer Truman Capote Doing Fan Dance at Studio 54
Original caption:6/26/1979-New York, New York- Not to be outdone by Mickey Rooney, who does a big Sally Rand tribute in his new Broadway-bound show âSugar Babies,â author Truman Capote does his version of a fan dance to the disco beat at Studio 54 recently. Capoteâs wearing a lot more clothes than Sally Rand did when she did her fan dances, and heâs using only one fan.
capote:sleeping:studio 54
Andy Warhol and Truman Capote.

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Other Rooms
The Sagaponack Home of Truman Capote
Designed and decorated by Capote himself, the writerâs house in a once secluded area of the Hamptons surrounded by sand, sea and potato fields was photographed in 1965 and then published by Architectural Digest in 1976. A capsule of Capoteâs own personality, the house was rustic like his Alabama upbringing, filled with storied collections of the simple and sophisticated, and more than a little camp. Following Capoteâs death, the house continued to be occupied by his lover, Jack Dunphy. Most recently, the house was owned (and extensively redecorated) by artist Ross Bleckner.
From the original article in Architectural Digest:
It is virtually impossible to find his Long Island home in the Hamptons, but thatâs exactly the way he wants it. Hidden behind scrub pine, privet hedges and rows of hydrangea bushes is Truman Capoteâs two-story, weathered-gray beach house near Sagaponack on the South Fork.
He lives in the heart of the Hamptonsâa stretch of rolling potato fields and lush farmlands married to the nearby Atlantic Ocean. A year-round farming community and a summer place for city people, it is here that antique farmhouses vie with modernistic glass houses for the dunes and fields. Mr. Capote once called Sagaponack âKansas with a sea breeze.â
It has actually become a rural Montparnasse with the likes of James Jones, Willem de Kooning, Marya Mannes, Jean Stafford, Joseph Heller and many other artists and writers living in the area. It is also the kind of sleepy sentimental town where the local barâTruman Capote often lunches here or has a drink with fellow writers John Knowles or Willie Morrisâruns an ad in the biweekly newspaper wishing him happy birthday. He can come and go as he pleases.
The best way to find Mr. Capoteâs secluded house is with him at the wheel of his deep-green Buick. Then it is a short but bumpy ride down a dirt lane first opened back in 1670, a quick turn into a gravel driveway past a natural bird sanctuary and a friendâs cottage built on his property, before he jerkily pulls up in front of his box-shaped, flat-roofed wooden house. Wildflowers are still blooming, and the smell of the potatoes, almost ready for harvest, is pungent on the salty Atlantic Ocean air.
âI own these fields,â he says proudly, sweeping his left hand like a plantation owner over the six acres he has owned since 1962, when he had the house built to his specifications âby a local carpenter whoâs dead now. He did it to my directions. Itâs exactly the way I wanted it. I work at this untended look. Itâs intentional. You can see how quiet it is here because you can barely see the top of another house. This is a place to be alone.â
Only a few friends have ever ventured up the overgrown path to the house hidden in the dune grass, and they have all been invited first.
âIâm here to work. I come here a lot in the autumn and winter, and I see almost no one. I donât care for the Hamptons in the summerâitâs gotten too crowded. I donât understand the way some people come out here and run themselves ragged every night. I just donât think some of these writers are working.â This may seem an odd remark from Mr. Capote, who knows everyone from prisoners to princesses, socialites to sailors, and who simultaneously holds the reputation for being one of Americaâs greatest prose writers and another for being a social butterfly.
âI spend most of my time out here reading, writing, going for walks with my dog and talking on the telephone. I see people in New York; I donât see New York people out here. I hardly see anyone when Iâm here. In the past 14 years, since Iâve had this house, Iâve gone out six times for dinner. Now thatâs quite a record for someone known for being so social, isnât it? Besides, whom would I entertain? I only know about four people Iâd really have over!â
Entering his house through the back kitchen door, he removes his loafers Japanese-style and walks into the living room. The barefoot Mr. Capote picks up a rag mop as delicately as Fred Astaire tapped his dancing cane and starts to dust the marine-blue floor, still not quite dry from its recent coat of boat deck paint. âIâve just had it repainted, and this humidity doesnât help it dry. You should see this room at night. The floor floats like a big blue-green lake.â
The author describes his house as a âraincoat,â referring to the method of its construction. Built with the exterior walls exposed to reveal vertical studs and horizontal bracings, the skin of the building protects the inside, just like a raincoat.
âI wanted a rustic house. I really think of it as one big room. Completely winterized, itâs been designed to look unfinished. I call it ârun-down comfort.â I like the effect of texture in roomsâthe rawness of the wood plus the mirrors that line one end.â A floor-to-ceiling window with divided panes lets in the glorious morning sun and allows a view of the sea and sand some 200 yards beyond the house. A spiraling steel staircase leads to a balconied second-floor study lined with red sofas, wicker chairs and hassocks and a famed RenĂŠ BouchĂŠ sketch of Capote. Here he works or reads.
None of the furniture or furnishings have âDonât Touchâ signs. His possessions are comfortable, attractive and appear to be used rather than looked at. A priceless Tiffany lamp peeks over the shoulder of a worn yellow velvet easy chair. Upholstery has a few sun-faded patches, but the clusters of paperweights are shiny and sparkling. The wicker chairs and tables come from inexpensive import shops, or else they are rare antiquesâlike the round, claw-footed table downstairs where Mr. Capote writes. Needlepoint pillows done by friends are scattered about, as are silver-framed photographs of Lee Radziwill, an elegant-looking lady sitting primly in a bumper car, and Maggie.
Although she has left pale blond hairs around, MaggieâCapoteâs celebrated English bulldogâis nowhere in sight.
âSheâs next door visiting,â explains the writer, who loves to talk about his âsweet, quirky and huggyâ pet who once ate Joanne Carsonâs pink satin slippers and Charlotte Curtisâs poinsettias and who periodically raids picnickersâ baskets along Gibson Beach.
âOh, sheâs very munchy all right,â concedes Mr. Capote, pushing his Windex-blue-tinted prescription glasses up on his nose, shrugging and letting out his trademark, high-pitched giggle.
Off the enormous living room is a small screened-in porch, similar to ones in many southern homes, filled with his beloved wicker furniture. He uses it as a summer room when the breezes blow mildly from the sea. His bedroom, near the kitchen, is so stark and sparsely furnished it resembles a summer camperâs tent. Near his cot-size bed are a stack of detective magazines, a reducing machine and the usual pile of favorite books.
âI like to have my own things around me. Even when I travel to my other houses in Switzerland and in California, I take things of my own with me,â says Mr. Capote, whose permanent base is a sleek apartment in the U.N. Plaza in Manhattan.
âIâm a great houseguest. I only appear at mealtimes. However, I really donât like people staying with me. Itâs interrupting.â
His Sagaponack schedule is uncomplicatedly regular. âI get up around 7:00 a.m. and work until 11:00, stopping to read the papers. I work again until 1:00 p.m., when I have my lunch. Then I drive to the post office, do my errands, go for a walk. I fool around in the evenings, reading, walking Maggie. I have my dinner by 7:00 p.m., and Iâm usually in bed around 9:30 with a book.â
Currently at work on his long-awaited novel, Answered Prayers, the author recently finished his first film role, in Murder by Death, a Neil Simon script.
He is a collector, and he knows it. Thereâs a wonderful photograph taken several years ago by society photographer Slim Aarons of a youthful Capote perched on a Victorian sofa surrounded by many of his favorite things. âI like to collect things, Victorian things, and mix everything together. I enjoy looking for and at all of them. Iâm not sure I need them. Iâve got too much, and I havenât edited myself lately!â
He designs his own interiors. âFor me, itâs a bore to use a decorator. I know exactly what I want. I just donât care to have someone come in and tell me what I need to live with. I know.â
His philosophy of good interior design? âSomething thatâs not immediately offensive when you walk into a room. Of course it may be, eventually.â
Born in New Orleans and raised in the South, he began Breakfast at Tiffanyâs, his famous classic, with the line, âI am always drawn back to places where I have lived, the houses and the neighborhoods.â Sagaponack, in many ways, reminds him of home. âI moved around so much as a child, I never had a sense of home. Maybe I did when I was 11 and I lived in a rural town in Alabama.â
Eyeing a hat rack above his bricked fireplace, the writer capriciously points to his assortment of rumpled panama hats.
âHome is where I hang my hats,â he laughs. âHowever, I keep leaving them when I go visit people. I donât have as many as I used to because I donât recover them all. People always promise to send them back, but they donât.â
âFinding the right form for your story is simply to realize the most natural way of telling the story. The test of whether or not a writer has divined the natural shape of his story is just this: after reading it, can you imagine it differently, or does it silence your imagination and seem to you absolute and final? As an orange is final. As an orange is something nature has made just right.â
âTruman Capote, The Art of Fiction No. 17
But we are alone, darling child, terribly, isolated each from the other; so fierce is the worldâs ridicule we cannot speak or show our tenderness; for us, death is stronger than life, it pulls like a wind through the dark, all our cries burlesqued in joyless laughter; and with the garbage of loneliness stuffed down us until our guts burst bleeding green, we go screaming round the world, dying in our rented rooms, nightmare hotels, eternal homes of the transient heart.
-Truman Capote (Other Voices, Other Rooms)

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