Truman Capote’s In Cold Blood pisses me off to no end. I love the detail heavy descriptions, the beautiful prose, the overflowing talent Capote possessed. But I hate this fucking book. This conflict is exactly what I deal with every time I sit down to write. I’m capable of big, sweeping, flowery writing, but it bores me to tears. I appreciate Capote’s grasp of the language but despise its use. Damn shame, huh? This is another reason why I’ve never finished East of Eden. I would have picked Steinbeck’s literary heavy-hitter but I wanted to showcase something I actually made it through.
Capote, who died under the weight of his words. Or phlebitis… either one.