miércoles, octubre 26, 2005
Just sharing:
"I suppose you think I'm very brazen. Or très fou. Or something."
"Not at all."
She seemed disappointed. "Yes, you do. Everybody does. I don't mind. It's useful."
She sat down on one of the rickety red-velvet chairs, curved her legs underneath her, and glanced round the room, her eyes puckering more pronouncedly. "How can you bear it? It's a chamber of horrors."
"Oh, you get used to anything." I said, annoyed with myself, for actually I was proud of the place.
"I don't I'll never get used to anything. Anybody that does, they might as well be dead." Her dispraising eyes surveyed the room again. "What do you do here all day?"
I motioned toward a table tall with books and paper. "Write things."
"I thought writers were quite old. Of course Saroyan isn't old. I met him at a party, and really he isn't old at all. In fact," she mused, "if he'd give himself a closer shave . . . by the way, is Hemingway old?"
"In his forties, I should think."
"That's not bad. I can't get excited by a man until he's forty-two. I know this idiot girl who keeps telling me I ought to go to a head-shrinker; she says I have a father complex. Which is so much merde. I simply trained myself to like older men, and it was the smartest thing I ever did. How old is W. Somerset Maugham?"
"I'm not sure. Sixty-something."
"That's not bad. I've never been to bed with a writer. No, wait: do you know Benny Shacklett?" She frowned when I shook my head. "That's funny. He's written an awful lot of radio stuff. But quel rat. Tell me, are you a real writer?"
"It depends on what you mean by real."
"Well, darling, does anyone buy what you write?"
From Breakfast at Tiffany's by Truman Capote
"I suppose you think I'm very brazen. Or très fou. Or something."
"Not at all."
She seemed disappointed. "Yes, you do. Everybody does. I don't mind. It's useful."
She sat down on one of the rickety red-velvet chairs, curved her legs underneath her, and glanced round the room, her eyes puckering more pronouncedly. "How can you bear it? It's a chamber of horrors."
"Oh, you get used to anything." I said, annoyed with myself, for actually I was proud of the place.
"I don't I'll never get used to anything. Anybody that does, they might as well be dead." Her dispraising eyes surveyed the room again. "What do you do here all day?"
I motioned toward a table tall with books and paper. "Write things."
"I thought writers were quite old. Of course Saroyan isn't old. I met him at a party, and really he isn't old at all. In fact," she mused, "if he'd give himself a closer shave . . . by the way, is Hemingway old?"
"In his forties, I should think."
"That's not bad. I can't get excited by a man until he's forty-two. I know this idiot girl who keeps telling me I ought to go to a head-shrinker; she says I have a father complex. Which is so much merde. I simply trained myself to like older men, and it was the smartest thing I ever did. How old is W. Somerset Maugham?"
"I'm not sure. Sixty-something."
"That's not bad. I've never been to bed with a writer. No, wait: do you know Benny Shacklett?" She frowned when I shook my head. "That's funny. He's written an awful lot of radio stuff. But quel rat. Tell me, are you a real writer?"
"It depends on what you mean by real."
"Well, darling, does anyone buy what you write?"
From Breakfast at Tiffany's by Truman Capote
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