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.
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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.
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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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