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I couldn't understand a sense of unease that multiplied until I could hear my heart beating.
Truman Capote
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Truman Capote
Age: 59 †
Born: 1924
Born: September 30
Died: 1984
Died: August 25
Actor
Artist
Author
Autobiographer
Journalist
Novelist
Playwright
Screenwriter
Writer
New Orleans
Louisiana
Truman Streckfus Persons
Truman Garcia Capote
Heart
Unease
Multiplied
Beating
Couldn
Hear
Understand
Sense
More quotes by Truman Capote
To wake up one morning and feel that I was a last a grown-up person, emptied of resentment, vengeful thoughts and other wasteful childish emotions. To find myself, in other words, an adult. Truman Capote
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I'm very scared, Buster. Yes, at last. Because it could go on forever. Not knowing what's yours until you've thrown it away.
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Just remember: If one bird carried every grain of sand, grain by grain, across the ocean, by the time he got them all on the other side, that would only be the beginning of eternity.
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But he does look stupid.' Yearning. Not stupid. He wants awfully to be on the inside staring out: anybody with their nose pressed against a glass is liable to look stupid.
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Actually, I think friendship and love are exactly the same thing.
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Oh Jesus God we did belong to each other. He was mine.
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You can't blame a writer for what the characters say.
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That isn't writing at all, it's typing.
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I thought of the future, and spoke of the past.
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Life is a moderately good play with a badly written third act.
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But I'm not a saint yet. I'm an alcoholic. I'm a drug addict. I'm homosexual. I'm a genius.
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Leave it to me: I'm always top banana in the shock department.
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A work of art is one of mystery, the one extreme magic everything else is either arithmetic or biology.
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But it's Sunday, Mr. Bell. Clocks are slow on Sundays.
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All human life has its seasons and cycles, and no one's personal chaos can be permanent. Winter, after all, gives way to spring and summer, though sometimes when branches stay dark and the earth cracks with ice, one thinks they will never come, that spring, and that summer, but they do, and always.
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Talent is a valued tormentor.
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That's the question: is truth an illusion, or is illusion truth, or are they essentially the same? Myself, I don't care what anybody says about me as long as it isn't true.
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That's not writing, that's typing
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June, July, all through the warm months she hibernated like a winter animal who did not know spring had come and gone.
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She is pure Alice in Wonderland, and her appearance and demeanor are a nicely judged mix of the Red Queen and a Flamingo.
Truman Capote
