Capote reading

Well, blogging I guess.

The village of Holcomb stands on the high wheat plains of western Kansas, a lonesome arean that other Kansans call "Out There." Some seventy miles east of the Colorado border, the countryside, with it's hard blue skies and desert-clear air, has an atmosphere that is rather more Far West than middle west. The local accent is barbed with a prairie twang, a ranch-hand nasalness, and the men, many of them, wear narrow frontier trousers, stetsons, and high-heeled boots with pointed toes. The land is flat, and the views are awesomely extensive; horses, herds of cattle, a white cluster of grain elevators rising as gracefully as Greek temples are visible long before a traveler reaches them.

What intrigues me about Capote is his language. His words are dark when needed, and heavy as brick. Yet he can inspire me to feel the whisper of the golden wheat and solemn still of the cemetary.

He was a master, and I've tried to mold myself to his style bit by bit.


We'll see if it works.