Answered Prayers
The Unfinished Novel
(Sprache: Englisch)
The three completed chapters of Capote's unfinished novel, focusing on P.B. Jones, an amoral bisexual who has tumbled from the jet-set heights, are accompanied by an introduction by the editor
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The three completed chapters of Capote's unfinished novel, focusing on P.B. Jones, an amoral bisexual who has tumbled from the jet-set heights, are accompanied by an introduction by the editor
Klappentext zu „Answered Prayers “
As it follows the career of a writer of uncertain parentage and omnivorous erotic tastes, Answered Prayers careens from a louche bar in Tangiers to a banquette at La Cote Basque, from literary salons to highpriced whorehouses. It takes in calculating beauties and sadistic husbands along with such real-life supporting characters as Colette, the Duchess of Windsor, Montgomery Clift, and Tallulah Bankhead. Above all, this malevolently funny book displays Capote at his most relentlessly observant and murderously witty.
Lese-Probe zu „Answered Prayers “
IUnspoiled Monsters
Somewhere in this world there exists an exceptional philosopher named Florie Rotondo.
The other day I came across one of her ruminations printed in a magazine devoted to the writings of schoolchildren. It said: If I could do anything, I would go to the middle of our planet, Earth, and seek uranium, rubies, and gold. I d look for Unspoiled Monsters. Then I d move to the country. Florie Rotondo, age eight.
Florie, honey, I know just what you mean even if you don t: how could you, age eight?
Because I have been to the middle of our planet; at any rate, have suffered the tribulations such a journey might inflict. I have searched for uranium, rubies, gold, and, en route, have observed others in these pursuits. And listen, Florie I have met Unspoiled Monsters! Spoiled ones, too. But the unspoiled variety is the rara avis: white truffles compared to black; bitter wild asparagus as opposed to garden-grown. The one thing I haven t done is move to the country.
As a matter of fact, I am writing this on Y.M.C.A. stationery in a Manhattan Y.M.C.A., where I have been existing the last month in a viewless second-floor cell. I d prefer the sixth floor so if I decided to climb out the window, it would make a vital difference. Perhaps I ll change rooms. Ascend. Probably not. I m a coward. But not cowardly enough to take the plunge.
My name is P. B. Jones, and I m of two minds whether to tell you something about myself right now, or wait and weave the information into the text of the tale. I could just as well tell you nothing, or very little, for I consider myself a reporter in this matter, not a participant, at least not an important one. But maybe it s easier to start with me.
As I say, I m called P. B. Jones; I am either thirty-five or thirty-six: the reason for the uncertainty is that no one knows when I was born or who my parents were. All we know is that I was a baby abandoned in the balcony of a St. Louis vaudeville theater.
... mehr
This happened 20 January 1936. Catholic nuns raised me in an austere red-stone orphanage that dominated an embankment overlooking the Mississippi River.
I was a favorite of the nuns, for I was a bright kid and a beauty; they never realized how conniving I was, duplicitous, or how much I despised their drabness, their aroma: incense and dishwater, candles and creosote, white sweat. One of the sisters, Sister Martha, I rather liked; she taught English and was so convinced I had a gift for writing that I became convinced of it myself. All the same, when I left the orphanage, ran away, I didn t leave her a note or ever communicate with her again: a typical sample of my numbed, opportunistic nature.
Hitchhiking, and with no particular destination in mind, I was picked up by a man driving a white Cadillac convertible. A burly guy with a broken nose and a flushed, freckled Irish complexion. Nobody you d take for a queer. But he was. He asked where I was headed, and I just shrugged; he wanted to know how old I was I said eighteen, though really I was three years younger. He grinned and said: Well, I wouldn t want to corrupt the morals of a minor.
As if I had any morals.
Then he said, solemnly: You re a good-looking kid. True: on the short side, five seven (eventually five eight), but sturdy and well-proportioned, with curly brown-blond hair, green-flecked brown eyes, and a face dramatically angular; to examine myself in a mirror was always a reassuring experience. So when Ned took his dive, he thought he was grabbing cherry. Ho ho! Starting at an early age, seven or eight or thereabouts, I d run the gamut with many an older boy and several priests and also a handsome Negro gardener. In fact, I was a kind of Hershey Bar whore there wasn t much I wouldn&
I was a favorite of the nuns, for I was a bright kid and a beauty; they never realized how conniving I was, duplicitous, or how much I despised their drabness, their aroma: incense and dishwater, candles and creosote, white sweat. One of the sisters, Sister Martha, I rather liked; she taught English and was so convinced I had a gift for writing that I became convinced of it myself. All the same, when I left the orphanage, ran away, I didn t leave her a note or ever communicate with her again: a typical sample of my numbed, opportunistic nature.
Hitchhiking, and with no particular destination in mind, I was picked up by a man driving a white Cadillac convertible. A burly guy with a broken nose and a flushed, freckled Irish complexion. Nobody you d take for a queer. But he was. He asked where I was headed, and I just shrugged; he wanted to know how old I was I said eighteen, though really I was three years younger. He grinned and said: Well, I wouldn t want to corrupt the morals of a minor.
As if I had any morals.
Then he said, solemnly: You re a good-looking kid. True: on the short side, five seven (eventually five eight), but sturdy and well-proportioned, with curly brown-blond hair, green-flecked brown eyes, and a face dramatically angular; to examine myself in a mirror was always a reassuring experience. So when Ned took his dive, he thought he was grabbing cherry. Ho ho! Starting at an early age, seven or eight or thereabouts, I d run the gamut with many an older boy and several priests and also a handsome Negro gardener. In fact, I was a kind of Hershey Bar whore there wasn t much I wouldn&
... weniger
Autoren-Porträt von Truman Capote
Truman Capote
Bibliographische Angaben
- Autor: Truman Capote
- 1994, Reissue, 176 Seiten, Maße: 12,6 x 19,8 cm, Kartoniert (TB), Englisch
- Verlag: Penguin Random House
- ISBN-10: 0679751823
- ISBN-13: 9780679751823
- Erscheinungsdatum: 02.07.2013
Sprache:
Englisch
Pressezitat
"A gift from an unbridled genius. Exciting ... irresistible ... should be cherished as top-flight work from a master." Los Angeles Times Book Review"Prose that makes the heart sing and the narrative fly... inspired." The New York Times Book Review
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