Breakfast at Tiffany's and Three Stories: House of Flowers, A Diamond Guitar, and A Christmas Memory

by Truman Capote

What I’ve found does the most good is just to get into a taxi and go to Tiffany’s. It calms me down right away,

If I could find a real-life place that made me feel like Tiffany’s, then I’d buy some furniture and give the cat a name.

She stooped toward O.J. Berman, who, like many short men in the presence of tall women, had an aspiring mist in his eye.

Her bedroom was consistent with her parlor: it perpetuated the same camping-out atmosphere; crates and suitcases, everything packed and ready to go, like the belongings of a criminal who feels the law not far behind.

thought of the future, and spoke of the past. Because Holly wanted to know about my childhood. She talked of her own, too; but it was elusive, nameless, placeless, an impressionistic recital, though the impression received was contrary to what one expected, for she gave an almost voluptuous account of swimming and summer, Christmas trees, pretty cousins and parties: in short, happy in a way that she was not, and never, certainly, the background of a child who had run away.

the average personality reshapes frequently, every few years even our bodies undergo a complete overhaul—desirable or not, it is a natural thing that we should change.

as April approached May, the open-windowed, warm spring nights were lurid with the party sounds, the loud-playing phonograph and martini laughter that emanated from Apt. 2.

“Never love a wild thing,

But you can’t give your heart to a wild thing: the more you do, the stronger they get. Until they’re strong enough to run into the woods. Or fly into a tree. Then a taller tree. Then the sky. That’s how you’ll end up, Mr. Bell. If you let yourself love a wild thing. You’ll end up looking at the sky.”

“Mention that to a living soul, darling. I’ll hang you by your toes and dress you for a hog.”

Holly coolly told her: “Get them cotton-pickin’ hands off of me, you dreary, driveling old bull-dyke.”

“Don’t forget,” Holly managed to instruct me as the detectives propelled her down the stairs, “please feed the cat.”

Don’t be hoggy: read it aloud. I’d like to hear it myself.” It began: “My dearest little girl—” Holly at once interrupted. She wanted to know what I thought of the handwriting. I thought nothing: a tight, highly legible, uneccentric script. “It’s him to a T. Buttoned up and constipated,” she declared. “Go on.”