There are many writers who pen novels that withstand the changing styles, the ebb and flow of cultural interests, and linger in the human consciousness long after the author takes his last breath. Then, there are writers who pen stylistic masterpieces, but generate controversy in their personal lives and in their writing. My favourite writer, with utmost certainty, belongs to the latter group. His work inspired me to become a writer myself, as the prose, dedication to the story and the sheer magnitude of the project characterize his final novel – arguably the most famous true crime book of all time. “In Cold Blood” takes a gruesome, horrific crime and spins a masterfully crafted tale of murder, delving into the minds of both the perpetrators and neighbours of the victims. Truman Capote spent years researching his novel and living in a town he describes in a way that makes simplicity sound captivating. He writes that “the village of Holcomb stands on the high wheat plains of western Kansas, a lonesome area that other Kansans call ‘out there.’”
Much to my chagrin, though, Capote’s novel is not recognized for it’s prose, it’s ground-breaking status in the true crime sector of literature, nor the years the author spent poring over research and living in the evidence. His words live inked in controversy, in an endless debate about whether to consider the piece “fiction” or “non-fiction.” True, Capote spent half a decade waking up and falling asleep surrounded by people who felt the immediate aftermath of the crime. But, it is also true that he manufactured, edited, and manipulated facts to suit his writing style, complement the story line, or make the novel easier to follow. In doing so, Capote broke the rule of absolute accuracy in journalistic endeavours – writers are, like witnesses to crimes, sworn to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. But, Capote broke that unwritten promise. He bent truths, twisted words, and wrote a novel that told a true story with mostly true facts. But, if no one ever broke the rules, cultural evolution would never happen. “On the Road,” “The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test,” and countless other works would be immediately discredited for not towing the line. It does not, by any means, make them any less iconic. What it does make them is an intellectual and creative product of one man’s brain and experiences. A novel should not be remembered for its controversy nor the rules it broke. It should be remembered for its excellence.
Capote is the only man, to my knowledge, who makes murder sound both elegant and gruesome. The grizzly facts of the case are detailed with dainty sentences and every character’s full-bodied existence as a fluid, breathing, individual is noted with even the smallest of sentences. The emotional weight of the crime is not taken lightly, but not written densely. “In Cold Blood” stands out in true crime as an iconic piece of literature – it’s characterization should not matter. Nor should the reputation of the high-society author, who always had a drink in his hand, or his friendship with Harper Lee. Speculation of his involvement in “To Kill A Mockingbird,” his grandiose personal life, and his socialite friends overshadow Truman Capote’s real legacy – his writing.
“In Cold Blood” intended to shock the world with a gruesome, needless crime – and its content does just that. In a moment of chilling bluntness, Perry Smith, one of the two men responsible for the Clutter family’s bloody deaths, tries to explain why he killed them.
“I WAS WILLING TO TAKE THE GAMBLE. AND IT WASN’T BECAUSE OF ANYTHING THE CLUTTERS DID. THEY NEVER HURT ME. LIKE OTHER PEOPLE. LIKE PEOPLE HAVE ALL MY LIFE. MAYBE IT’S JUST THE CLUTTERS WERE THE ONES THAT HAD TO PAY FOR IT.”
So maybe four cops amalgamated to become the novel’s Dewey. Maybe small details that, in the grand scheme of things, didn’t really change the case were manipulated. It does not change the work Capote did to uncover this case (damaging his own psyche is nothing if not a testament to the sacrifice and effort this project demanded), and it does not change the airy yet serious tone in which Capote writes.
Reading this book for the first time in high school was the reason I wanted to be a writer. It made me realize that sentences, much like solitary strokes of a paintbrush or stitches in a couture dress, can be beautiful. They help to create the final stunning project. It made me realize that the way story is told is, in many cases, just as memorable as the story itself. It made me want to create something of my own, to string sentences together to tell a story to the world. I did not once contemplate the characterization of “In Cold Blood” as fiction or non-fiction, not once contemplate Capote’s extravagant lifestyle, or anything extraneous. I seek to spend my life writing, following whatever pages of fragmented stories I find because of that book. In it’s own dark way, it inspired me to contemplate my own potential, the evil in human nature, and the beauty in which it can be understood and expressed.
Today would have been Truman Capote’s birthday. Born in 1924, he died exactly 60 years later and is buried at Westwood Cemetery in Los Angeles.
Capote is the only man, to my knowledge, who makes murder sound both elegant and gruesome. The grizzly facts of the case are detailed with dainty sentences and every character’s full-bodied existence as a fluid, breathing, individual is noted with even the smallest of sentences. The emotional weight of the crime is not taken lightly, but not written densely. “In Cold Blood” stands out in true crime as an iconic piece of literature – it’s characterization should not matter. Nor should the reputation of the high-society author, who always had a drink in his hand, or his friendship with Harper Lee. Speculation of his involvement in “To Kill A Mockingbird,” his grandiose personal life, and his socialite friends overshadow Truman Capote’s real legacy – his writing.
“In Cold Blood” intended to shock the world with a gruesome, needless crime – and its content does just that. In a moment of chilling bluntness, Perry Smith, one of the two men responsible for the Clutter family’s bloody deaths, tries to explain why he killed them.
“I WAS WILLING TO TAKE THE GAMBLE. AND IT WASN’T BECAUSE OF ANYTHING THE CLUTTERS DID. THEY NEVER HURT ME. LIKE OTHER PEOPLE. LIKE PEOPLE HAVE ALL MY LIFE. MAYBE IT’S JUST THE CLUTTERS WERE THE ONES THAT HAD TO PAY FOR IT.”
So maybe four cops amalgamated to become the novel’s Dewey. Maybe small details that, in the grand scheme of things, didn’t really change the case were manipulated. It does not change the work Capote did to uncover this case (damaging his own psyche is nothing if not a testament to the sacrifice and effort this project demanded), and it does not change the airy yet serious tone in which Capote writes.
Reading this book for the first time in high school was the reason I wanted to be a writer. It made me realize that sentences, much like solitary strokes of a paintbrush or stitches in a couture dress, can be beautiful. They help to create the final stunning project. It made me realize that the way story is told is, in many cases, just as memorable as the story itself. It made me want to create something of my own, to string sentences together to tell a story to the world. I did not once contemplate the characterization of “In Cold Blood” as fiction or non-fiction, not once contemplate Capote’s extravagant lifestyle, or anything extraneous. I seek to spend my life writing, following whatever pages of fragmented stories I find because of that book. In it’s own dark way, it inspired me to contemplate my own potential, the evil in human nature, and the beauty in which it can be understood and expressed.
Today would have been Truman Capote’s birthday. Born in 1924, he died exactly 60 years later and is buried at Westwood Cemetery in Los Angeles.