Truman Capote's writing is fucking delightful. It's like listening to the sound of Morgan Freeman's voice while lying in bed eating warm cherry pie. I would know; I dated Morgan Freeman, he was a fabulous baker. Capote's narrative style has the easy dreamlike quality of a flashback. In a few sentences he can completely convey the layout of a room, its mahogany chairs and cold green walls, the antique lampshade purchased by the protagonist's grandfather at a widow's auction in 1910. With very little he can paint the most nuanced subtleties of human convention. There's a mastery to the way he writes, how he can saturate a sentence in so much sentiment the page feels wet.
As I've gotten older I've realized its harder for me to do two things at the same time. To write and listen to music is an experiment in failure, always, though I haven't yet accepted this as truth. I become so easily distracted that what I'm writing floats away from me like the thin heat of sleep. It's funny, when I was younger I was able to use the music as a catalyst, an energy source with which to infuse my writing, to focus my concentration. That's not true any longer. Now I feel like I'm sitting on a swing swaying back and forth between two discrete realities. Strange how that happens. Fatigue I guess, the hardening of the brain, time.
The old brain ain't what it used to be.
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