Friday, December 18, 2009

Truman Capote's Christmas Stories

I am an avid reader; always have been. So that is why I get frustrated at times by the process of picking out a new book to read. It happens every so often, you know how it is, when nothing can really grab your attention. Or, if it does, you are annoyed the whole time and eventually put it down. That is exactly the state I have been in for the past month or so. I've been needing a page-turner, but everything I reach for turns out to be blah. (I read the first hundred pages of The Return by Victoria Hislop and had to put it down, despite the beautiful cover, and the same goes for Sima's Undergarments for Women by Ilana Stranger-Ross. And I know there was at least one more on this list...)

So feeling slightly disgruntled by my endeavors, I decided (what with it being Christmas and all) to pick up Truman Capote's Christmas Stories. Having read them a few years ago, I was well aware of what I was getting into, and therefore knew that they were exactly what I needed.

Truman Capote's Christmas Stories are comprised of three short stories: A Christmas Memory, One Christmas, and The Thanksgiving Visitor. And to be perfectly frank, one could probably read the whole of them in one sitting. However, I wouldn't recommend it. Besides, sometimes it seems a bit disrespectful to plow right through something so quickly and not give it another thought.

All three stories are autobiographical, so they are filled with same the 'characters' throughout. And they all take place when Capote was a child (6,7,8-ish), living in Alabama. The first story, A Christmas Memory, is my favorite. It is about making fruitcake with his 'friend'; his friend being his 60-something-year old cousin called Miss Sook. She is also his best friend and their relationship is truly beautiful.

The second story, One Christmas, is about going to stay with his father in New Orleans one particular Christmas, and the eye-opening experience it turns out to be. The last story, The Thanksgiving Visitor, is about Miss Sook inviting the kid who beats the tar out of Buddy on a regular basis over for Thanksgiving dinner. (Buddy is the name that Miss Sook affectionately gives to Capote.)

All three stories are magnificent. The writing is beautiful — simple, but jam-packed at the same time. They are also tinged with a certain sadness, but don't let that put you off. The humor in them is ever-present.

Anyway, after re-reading the stories I am left wondering, yet again, why these are not considered a 'must-read' at Christmas time. The only thing I can figure is that the book In Cold Blood created the image of Truman Capote that most people seem to have of him today, which is not very Christmas-y. You know, the whole 'Good Will Toward Man' stuff that we all appreciate so much during the Christmas season? A book about a couple of gruesome murders may not capture this spirit so much. Maybe it's just me.
If you must know, I have not actually read In Cold Blood. Every time I pick it up my sister says, 'Oh! Don't do it — you'll be sorry. I still can't get the images out of my head!' And strangely enough her copy made it into the pile of books not to be finished. She laughs about this now, more than a little aghast with herself, for putting it down well after the gruesome murders take place. Fine point, I say. My mom, on the other hand, claims it was a page-turner and could not put it down. As for me, I do want to read it someday. However, not until my husband stops going out of town for work, and my vivid imagination becomes a little less vivid. In the meantime, I'll stick with his lovely Christmas Stories and not lose any sleep over it.

From The Thanksgiving Visitor:
'It made me feel ashamed, Buddy. It hurts me all the way down to see somebody struggling like Molly. Never able to see a clear day. I don't say people should have everything they want. Though, come to think of it, I don't see what's wrong with that, either. You ought to have a bike to ride, and why shouldn't Queenie have a beef bone every day? Yes, now it's come to me, now I understand: We really all of us ought to have everything we want. I'll bet you a dime that's what the Lord intends. And when all around us we see people who can't satisfy the plainest needs, I feel ashamed. Oh, not of myself, because who am I, an old nobody who never owned a mite; if I hadn't had a family to pay my way, I'd have starved or been sent to the County Home. The shame I feel is for all of us who have anything extra when other people have nothing.'

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