Breakfast at Tiffany's

by Truman Capote

“What is today?” “Thursday.” “Thursday.” She stood up. “My God,” she said, and sat down again with a moan. “It’s too gruesome.”

And since gin to artifice bears the same relation as tears to mascara, her attractions at once dissembled. She took it out on everyone.

“Yearning. Not stupid. He wants awfully to be on the inside staring out: anybody with their nose pressed against a glass is liable to look stupid.

“It may be normal, darling; but I’d rather be natural.”