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If you can't be friends with a lover, then forget it. It's not going to work.

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
Lover
Lovers
Friends
Forget
Going
Work

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And in this moment, like a swift intake of breath, the rain came.
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I know the next best thing is often the very best.
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It was the most haunting room I've ever seen. Because you know what's in it? All the left­overs, all the paraphernalia that the different condemned men had had with them in the holding cells.
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I don't care what anybody says about me as long as it isn't true.
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Every day is a new day with me. All holds are off. All contracts are forgotten.
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When I am writing, I try to do it five hours a day but I spend about two of those just fooling around.
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The true beloveds of this world are in their lover's eyes lilacs opening, ship lights, school bells, a landscape, remembered conversations, friends, a child's Sunday, lost voices, one's favorite suit, autumn and all seasons, memory, yes, it being the earth and water of existence, memory.
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She was a triumph over ugliness, so often more beguiling than real beauty, if only because it contains paradox.
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Work is the only device I know of.
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Actually, I think friendship and love are exactly the same thing.
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I despise people who can't control themselves.
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But it's Sunday, Mr. Bell. Clocks are slow on Sundays.
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all his prayers of the past had been simple concrete requests: God, give me a bicycle, a knife with seven blades, a box of oil paints. Only how, how, could you say something so indefinite, so meaningless as this: God, let me be loved.
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One day, I started writing, not knowing that I had chained myself for life to a noble but merciless master. When God hands you a gift, he also hands you a whip and the whip is intended solely for self-flagellation... I'm here alone in my dark madness, all by myself with my deck of cards - and, of course, the whip God gave me.
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Those fellows, they're always crying over killers. Never a thought for the victims.
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I like to talk on TV about those things that aren't worth writing about.
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Norman Mailer thinks William Burroughs is a genius, which I think is ludicrous beyond words. I don't think William Burroughs has an ounce of talent.
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There is no shame — having a dirty face — the shame comes when you keep it dirty.
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Some cities, like wrapped boxes under Christmas trees, conceal unexpected gifts, secret delights. Some cities will always remain wrapped boxes, containers of riddles never to be solved, nor even to be seen by vacationing visitors, or, for that matter, the most inquisitive, persistent travelers.
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Have you never heard what the wise men say: all of the future exists in the past.
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