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Holly Golightly is an unbelievable young woman. Despite of a quite young age she can charm almost everyone who spoke to her. underclothes, windowed, skinned, boathouse, fatherly, stork, unsigned, mag, mailman, trawler, smartly, housework, raincoat, shyly, lawful, playfully, lying. 52 downloads Views 98KB Size Report. DOWNLOAD EPUB. 0 Comments. Sort by Capote, Truman - Breakfast at Tiffany's. Read more · Breakfast At. Editorial Reviews. Review. “Truman Capote is the most perfect writer of my generation. Download it once and read it on your Kindle device, PC, phones or tablets. Use features like Support Advanced Search · Kindle Store · Kindle eBooks · Literature & Fiction . $ Read with Our Free App; Audiobook. $ Free with.


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In this seductive, wistful masterpiece, Truman Capote created a woman whose name has entered the American idiom and whose style is a part of the literary. Breakfast at Tiffany's Truman Capote, I am always drawn back to places . Now the Jap, he asked about her up and down the country. .. no hunger for friends of longer acquaintance: they seemed now like a salt-free, sugarless diet. Download Breakfast at Tiffany's: Truman Capote Download Free Ebook. Version of PDF eBook and the name of writer and number pages in ebook every.

Search the history of over billion web pages on the Internet. Books by Language. For instance, there is a brownstone in the East Seventies where, during the early years of the war, I had my first New York apartment. It was one room crowded with attic furniture, a sofa and fat chairs upholstered in that itchy, particular red velvet that one associates with hot days on a tram. The walls were stucco, and a color rather like tobacco-spit. Everywhere, in the bathroom too, there were prints of Roman ruins freckled brown with age. The single window looked out on a fire escape.

Well, that was Blake Edwards' idea of what Holly Golightly looked like. But it wasn't Capote's idea who should play her. It was Marilyn Monroe. No question. It was that blonde hair, almost platinum. But Capote only sold the film rights. He maintained no control over the direction or production of the film. Capote was such a wonderful dancer. I can still remember photographs of him swirling Marilyn across the dance floor.

But Lee Strausberg told Marilyn playing Holly Golightly, a prostitute, wouldn't be good for her career. Monroe turned down the role for "The Misfits. But that's another story. History took its course. Henry Mancini composed "Moon River" for the score. George Peppard and Audrey Hepburn had chemistry. Following its release in , Edwards' work became one of the iconic American films. However, it bears little resemblance to Capote's work, although Audrey Hepburn is stunning in that little black dress.

It was not uncommon that movies made from Faulkner's books premiered in Oxford, Mississippi. One, to Faulkner's chagrin, bore so little comparison to his original work, when called to the stage to make opening remarks, Faulkner said, "Ladies and Gentlemen, the film you're about to see bears absolutely no resemblance to the book I wrote from which the title of this film was taken.

I can't imagine Capote taking that approach, he was still connected to a famous film that led to further sales of his work. Perhaps it was that desire for fame that ultimately destroyed Capote. Of course, in the novella, the young writer is unpublished.

Holly takes it upon herself to make him famous by introducing him to her Hollywood agent. In the movie, Peppard is a kept man, whose, shall we say, sponsor, is played by Patricia Neal, who is known to Holly as 2E, the lady's apartment number. And, of course, the movie ends happily ever after with George Peppard and Audrey Hepburn embracing in the rain and having found "Cat" whom Holly had kicked out of the taxi cab.

But Capote tells Holly's view regarding love, or whatever feeling she is capable of describing as love. Bell," Holly advised him. He was always lugging home wild things.

A hawk with a hurt wing. One time it was a full-grown bobcat with a broken leg. But you can't give your heart to a wild thing: Until they're strong enough to run into the woods. Or fly into a tree.

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Then a taller tree. Then the sky. That's how you'll end up, Mr. If you let yourself love a wild thing. You'll end up looking at the sky. I think he was right in his feelings. Of course, Capote, has said that the narrator of Breakfast at Tiffany's was gay.

In fact, it has been repeatedly surmised that Holly Golightly is the literary embodiment of Christopher Isherwood's Sally Bowles.

What divine decadence. The movie would never have ended the way it did, had Capote maintained creative control. Let's just say this one will always touch a nerve in me. This one is for all the Holly Golightlys in the world and the Joe Bells who have the sense to listen to them, and I offer it with all the heartfelt sympathy I can muster for those who can't understand what it means to love a wild thing.

View all 56 comments. Mar 26, Michael Finocchiaro rated it it was amazing Shelves: Capote has a mesmerizing way with words. His description of the aptly named Holly Golightly is splendid and the character herself is a sort of blend of Daisy Buchanon and Madame Bovary. I must see the film now She is both an actor and a victim of her status as a sex object - this is what transports this story from something banal to something more complex and enduring.

The Diamond Guitar is a tender story of unrequited love as well, albeit homosexual love and longing and disappearance. A Christmas Memory is a heartbreaking tale of camaraderie between a young boy and an older woman and their dreams of surpassing their humble existence.

Each of these stories of love, loss, and hope against hope that avoid sentimentalism in their cold rendering of events. It is more the external elements the weather in New York, the changing seasons at the farm, the bee prophecy and the wind respectively that color the psychology of the characters and their ambiguous fates.

I loved these stories and will read more of Truman Capote's work. I started watching the movie with the amazing Audrey Hepburn as Golightly and George Peppard as "Fred" and find it captures the essence of the relationship between these two characters. However, why did they have Mickey Rooney do that ridiculous and perhaps racist imitation of Yunioshi, why not just have a Japanese actor. The other annoying thing about the movie is the comic spin that it puts to the book which while at times somewhat humorous was for the most part darker and more layered than depicted by Blake Edwards.

View all 9 comments. Aug 05, Madeline rated it liked it Shelves: This is getting shelved under "The Movie is Better" but honestly, I can't decide which version I prefer. Because I am indecisive, let's make lists. Reasons The Movie Is Better: But let's be honest: Holly could spend the entire movie snorting crack off a sidewalk and Audrey Hepburn would make it the most elegant and classy crack-snorting anyone had ever seen.

Also she is actually seen eating breakfast outside the store, instead of just mentioning it offhandedly. Very drunk indeed. And they come back for Cat. Reasons The Book Is Better: Yunioshi actually has a sizable shred of dignity and is vital to the plot. This did wonders to undo the damage caused by the sight of a sweaty, overtanned, bucktoothed Mickey Rooney leaning over a banister and screeching, "Missa Gorightry!

I musta plotest! If not, could someone please find him and kill him for thinking he could successfully imitate a Japanese man without turning into a walking stereotype? Thank you. That's all I can think of at the moment. Bottom line: View all 15 comments. To be read in a complete sitting in some secret well-lit garden with a basket of tea and crumpets.

Necessary as stress relief and sweet as a caramel. Another plus for the already egotistical NYC, Holly Golightly is heavily embossed onto the overall structure, asphalt jungle, itself. View all 11 comments. May 10, Michael rated it it was amazing Shelves: Its subject is the short-lived friendship between a straight woman and a gay man living in New York during the early '40s, its theme the yearning for deep connection and a sense of belonging. In spite of Capote's ethereal prose and dazzling imagery, an excruciating sadness suffuses the novella: What on the surface appears to be a wistful bit of fluff, then, is in fact far more sorrowful and complex.

But this novelette is a small page thing, a drifting fragrance, a single chord, a glint, a hello then goodbye too soon, too soon — ah yes, itself therefore being the perfect embodiment of the Holly Golightly experience. As someone who grew up in the 90s, this was in my head the whole time I read this: I have never seen the movie, so the only idea I had in my mind is this iconic image of Audrey Hepburn as Holly Golightly: But, what I actually got was this: Holly is crass and obnoxious with really no redeeming qualities.

She is rude to her enemies, and even worse to her friends. She smokes to excess, drinks to excess, is promiscuous to excess - she is just wild, crazy, and destructive. Reading this was like watching As someone who grew up in the 90s, this was in my head the whole time I read this: Reading this was like watching a train wreck - but I kind of liked it. I couldn't look away! View all 35 comments. Fred, our story's narrator, has been called by Joe Bell the proprietor of Hamburg Heaven because he has heard about Holly.

As soon as Fred hears about Holly, the story flashes back to and we begin our story of Holly. How wrong was in these thoughts. Our protagonists live in a brownstone apartment, not the Plaza. Until the two have any interactions, Holly remains an enigma, adding to her mystique. Throughout the book, Holly still remains an enigma even after she and "Fred" build on their friendly, platonic relationship.

Who is Holly? Is she a Hollywood starlet or Arkansas hillbilly? A New York society girl or prostitute or a member of the mafia? Because the novella is only pages in length, Capote tackles all of these ideas while really building up Holly's character.

Even though I prefer epic novels, I also enjoy a shorter story that flushes out a character's personality and has me captivated from the first pages. Capote's novella does this and then some, allowing me to quickly read to the conclusion. Tiffany's does make an appearance in the novella although not the way I had thought it would. Holly in spite of all the glitz in her life, wants to be remembered the same when she has the money to eat breakfast at Tiffany's.

Does this mean she will be down to earth or a multi-layered character? Will she keep the same company or dine with movie stars? Capote hints that Holly would prefer the former but never tells us, allowing for the reader to draw their own conclusions. Again, this device enabled me to read the novella in one sitting so I could find out whether or not Holly ever ate breakfast at Tiffany's. I would be remiss if I did not mention the three other stories included in this novella. All of them bring out Capote's prose and show us why he is highly regarded as a classic American writer.

The collection ends on a high note with A Christmas Memory, allowing is some insight into Capote's family life growing up. I look forward to seeing Breakfast at Tiffany's on screen to compare the movie to the book and also reading his masterpiece In Cold Blood.

A 5-star classic. View all 17 comments. Sep 15, Lyn rated it really liked it. I was intrigued further to find that several other reviewers had noticed the same similarities. Both heroines exhibit a frank and earthy, almost playful sexuality that is intoxicating to the male characters, who pine and lust with barely contained libido. Both male narrators are sad caricatures of voyeuristic and doomed love, both pale also-rans to the Latin rivals.

In Holly Golightly, Capote has created an archetypal American woman of the twentieth century, at once sexual and material, yet in a playful, teasing and fun way. He could have written another hundred pages of scenes with her and I would have been as captivated as the unnamed except casually by Holly narrator.

Capote has penned a dandy and, like the best chocolate, it is a guilty delight. The theme that unites Breakfast at Tiffany's with the three much shorter stories in this volume is the powerful bond of friendship between unexpected people or in unusual circumstances. The title story is a male fantasy - so I wrote in Except that Capote was gay, so it's probably his idea of a typical straight man's fantasy.

Holly The story is of course about Holly Golightly, a charming but utterly self-absorbed, The theme that unites Breakfast at Tiffany's with the three much shorter stories in this volume is the powerful bond of friendship between unexpected people or in unusual circumstances.

Holly The story is of course about Holly Golightly, a charming but utterly self-absorbed, mysterious fantasist, full of intriguing contradictions. She has big ambitions and none at all, but she does want the security of having breakfast at Tiffany's. She is often flirtatious, but at other times she plays the total innocent e. At times she is oblivious to what people around her know and think, but at others, she is remarkably perspicacious about the personality and motives of those around her.

Knowing more about Holly only makes one realise how unknowable she is. When talking about her childhood, "it was elusive, nameless, placeless, an impressionistic recital".

Breakfast at Tiffany’s

Fred At times, the narrator acts like a stalker of his attractive and enigmatic neighbour examining her rubbish and investigating what she read at the library , yet he didn't alienate me. Perhaps one reason is the way that Holly uses men. As the men are happy to be used by her, where's the harm? Film It's written in such a visual way, that I'm not surprised it was turned into a film. I hadn't seen the film when I read and wrote this, though I had seen pictures of Audrey Hepburn as Holly.

Quirky quote " A group of nuns who were trying on masks " in a department store. The other, shorter stories in this volume House of Flowers This starts in a brothel in Port au Prince and the dialogue did not ring at all true to me but I'm hardly an expert on Haitian prostitution. It explores the friendship between the working girls, and how love is hard to discern in such an environment.

What is love like? A Diamond Guitar About friendship in prison and the effect of long-term incarceration on the psyche. A Christmas Memory A beautiful story of the self-made traditions that form a loving bond between a young boy and an elderly relative. I updated this review in April , picking up on comments below - without rereading the book! View all 55 comments. A woman making her way, amidst the excitement and wonder of New York City.

The few things she openly admits - the soft spot she has for her brother the actual Fred and her cure for the mean reds. Having seen the movie several times before listening to the audio, it felt to me like a piece of the story was missing. It almost makes me cringe to say this, but I actually enjoyed the movie a tad bit more than the book. How could she? At least, he ended up with a home, I guess. And maybe even a name.

Hall is the narrator and his voice is pretty unique. There were a few times his voice for Holly made me laugh, but for the most part, his narration was heavenly. At just under three hours, I found this to be a quick but wholly enjoyable listen. View all 33 comments. Nov 30, Perry rated it it was amazing Shelves: The phrase "Breakfast at Tiffany's" is iconic for that era. I'd not read the novel despite Truman Capote coming from the 2 states in which I've lived nearly all my life: Alabama and Mississippi, both of which have indisputably earne "It's better to look at the sky than live there; such an empty place, so vague, just a country where the thunder goes and things disappear" [ I'd forgotten how absolutely gorgeous Audrey Hepburn was ] Until a few years ago, I'd only seen the trailer for the film version.

Alabama and Mississippi, both of which have indisputably earned their places as regular punching bags of all outside the South, especially the cognoscenti and other snobbish bastards who would rather point fingers in a direction than look at all the bigotry around them. I might be a little differently affected by this short novel than many others, especially those who grew up in a large metropolis.

Before I explain what I mean, I'll say that I found Capote's short novel to masterfully display this young lady's complexities of character underlying the shallow facade of wealth.

Capote shows how some of us are willing to do nearly anything to achieve a dream, no matter how grandiose or superficial others may find it. Holly Golightly was a dreamer extraordinaire or as Capote put it, a "lopsided romantic" whose trait of personality would never change. A poignant line which I think best captures a major theme of the novel is Holly's observation late in the novel that: I recall the first time I went to New York City. I was in awe, which is more of a small town thing than Southern.

I've been many times since and the sheer size of it never fails to amaze me. City people, particularly those in NYC, are disgusted by such provincialism--a contempt they cannot hide. Certainly, he would have been very sensitive and keenly observant of his environment in New York City, having grown up ostracized by his classmates. The fact that he was a gay man from down South up in the big city suffering prejudices in NYC against not only his sexuality but much moreso against his Southern upbringing and drawl probably served to further enhance his remarkable attention to detail in that society, at that time.

These difficulties formed an integral part of the artist who so vividly painted one of the best ever outsiders looking in with longing.

View all 7 comments. Jan 08, Michelle rated it it was amazing. I consider it a classic! As for the novel, well I didn't know there was a novel!

I was fortunate enough to discover this book in the library. It can be a bit funny, but I realized it has a more somber tone than the the film and there are some prett "Breakfast at Tiffany's", was a delightful film. It can be a bit funny, but I realized it has a more somber tone than the the film and there are some pretty serious issues throughout the course of the story.

It also presents a heroine who you might not like very much or at all , which presents another challenge. Capote's attitude toward Holly can be different than your reaction to her, and I think this is part of his talent. He actually presents a lot of reasons to dislike Holly, but he is also careful to temper that with some information that probably elicits a sympathetic reaction to other parts of her life.

The story doesn't gloss over her negative qualities, but it does present details that complicate these downfalls. This gives a better idea of why she does whatever she must to survive. The tone is very different from the film, and there is no fairy-tale love in this story. Instead, you get a more realistic picture of love: The central theme seems to be more about looking forward to the future, and about the dreams, hopes, and plans we make for ourselves. In many ways these dreams sustain the characters, as they are propelled by the promise of something better than what the present can provide.

But when these same hopes, and plans are shattered, it has devastating effects on the dreamers. Suddenly, they have to revise what they've been looking forward to, and this throws some characters into a tailspin as they're suddenly forced to reevaluate their lives. It was quite a different experience from the film and it's very thought provoking. After reading the story, I actually appreciated the title and find it more relevant.

Although Holly actually mentions Tiffany's and having breakfast there just a few times, I think her reference to it tells you a lot about her character. It's true that Tiffany's is expensive and that the things in it are out of her reach, but it's the idea of Tiffany's and the perfection that she associates with the store that makes her feel better when she's scared, sad, or angry. It's the belief that only good things happen there that makes Tiffany's so appealing to her.

The title means so much, and all the while seems pretty insignificant. The novel is a masterpiece in its own right. Attempted to read in my teens, didn't do anything for me. Twenty-five years later, and now more literary adept, gave it another go.

With much better results. Boy oh boy, could he write!. Pursued by Mafia gangsters and playboy millionaires, Holly is a fragile eyeful of tawny hair and turned-up nose, a heart-breaker, a perplexer, a traveller, Attempted to read in my teens, didn't do anything for me. She works her way through various characters, and any other men who can pay her tab.

The narrator, an aspiring Capote-like writer, is her neighbor in their trendy-ish NYC apartment building. He is witness to her parade of gentlemen callers, and as he befriends her and falls in and out of love with her, bears witness to her dramas and the slowly revealed facets of her character and history.

The dialog in Breakfast at Tiffany's is snappy and moves along nicely, very much of the era, but it still sounds almost contemporary in tone if not in verbiage. Holly loves easily and leaves easily. She is easily angered and quick to forgive. She buys expensive gifts on a whim, expects to be treated to expensive things regularly. Eventually we find out where she's really from and how she became Manhattan's Girl About Town.

Then she gets in some legal trouble and goes on the lam, leaving the narrator to pine wistfully over her postcards from Brazil or wherever she's fled to. It's a cute, almost whimsical novel, and was probably much more scandalous when it was written. Neither the author nor the narrator ever come out and say that Holly is a lady of the night, but it's heavily implied.

At best, she lives a sugar daddy lifestyle. Today her behavior would barely raise an eyebrow in Manhattan, but in the 40s, when it was written, such a female protagonist was more shocking. Capote clearly wrote of his central characters with a big heart, of which there is also an echoing bittersweet sadness. Doable in one or two sittings. A worthy read for sure. I'm still looking. I read this one mainly because of it's cover. Have you ever feared being trapped by love and similar demons?

It is basically about that fear. But I'll tell you the truth. You can beat your brains out for her, and she'll hand you horseshit on a platter.

The indifference is not always because of malice. Sometimes, these people, just as Holly was, are as sensitive as others but have decided that they won't let themselves caged down even by other' love.

Bell," It is a kind of life that most people are often tempted to lead. We look at the birds flying in the sky and are envious of their so-called 'freedom': Such an empty place; so vague. Just a country where the thunder goes and things disappear.

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The only real freedom we can have is freedom to choose our own cage - and, what we need is to find a cage where we can feel at home. Unfortunately, it was too late.

Oct 15, Jonathan Ashleigh rated it it was amazing Shelves: Through college I saw so many posters with her face and "Breakfast at Tiffany's" somewhere on the image and that is what stuck in my head and I still have a tough time thinking anything different.

When I found out the real reason the title is what it is, I was disappointed that this book was an early version of product placement, but even with all of that said - Breakfast at Tiffany's When I started reading this book, because I haven't seen the movie, I thought Audrey Hepburn's name was Tiffany.

When I found out the real reason the title is what it is, I was disappointed that this book was an early version of product placement, but even with all of that said - Breakfast at Tiffany's is a great book. I believe it is a take on the great American novel that focuses on feminine personality. I'll probably read it again, and I'm going to watch the movie as soon as possible. View all 4 comments. A magnificent, elegant and historic classic, Breakfast at Tiffany's is a short but unforgettable book featuring a mysterious woman and the misadventures of her daily life in the 's.

Marilyn or Audrey? Who do you think? When Audrey was cast, Truman Capote remarked: Well, if it had been up to the author of the book on which the movie is based, Truman Capote, it would have been Marilyn Monroe. In fact, he wrote the book with h Marilyn or Audrey? In fact, he wrote the book with her as the character in mind. Marilyn was actually talked out of taking the role by her acting coach, Lee Strasberg — he felt that playing the lead role would be bad for her image.

The book Breakfast at Tiffany's, set in , documents the friendship of a New York writer whose name is never mentioned with his neighbour Holiday Holly Golightly.

Both live in a brownstone apartment building in Manhattan's Upper East Side. The story is presented as the writer's recollections of Holly many years after the conclusion of the friendship. Holly is a woman of mystery to everyone in her life.

There is ambiguity surrounding her profession; she has no job and lives by socializing with wealthy men, who wine, dine, and give her gifts and money, together with the ocassional overnight stay.

Was Holly Golightly a prostitute? In a interview in Playboy, Truman Capote addressed the question: They're our version of the geisha girl. She had no job, but accompanied expense-account men to the best restaurants and night clubs, with the understanding that her escort was obligated to give her some sort of gift, perhaps jewelry or a check So these girls are the authentic American geishas, and they're much more prevalent now than in or , which was Holly's era..

Breakfast at Tiffany's excels in imagery, the prose lyrical. It has many layers to it. Abandonment, loneliness, the need to belong and yet not be chained at the same time, the delight in the unorthodox and not loving a wild thing. This was a sad book in lots of ways. We have Holly who is an odd mixture of childlike innocence and street smart sexuality, confused yet determined, who knows very well what she wants and will walk over others to get it.

Then you have the other characters in her life who are obsessed by her, whose lives evolve around her, and no matter how bad she treats them, they come back for more. As a reader, it is difficult to like Holly. She is referred to as a phony as she hides herself behind interesting lies and an eccentric lifestyle. She wants no responsibility or ties to people or things.

She keeps disconnected and unloving for the freedom of her feelings. I enjoyed the book more than the movie. Capote describes Holly in such a way that you get the sense he has moulded her on someone that he knew, someone who intrigued him and held an allure or aura of mysticism that left a deep impression. A gread read! View all 20 comments. Her bedroom was consistent with her parlor: She is a phony. She believes all this crap she believes.

Scott Fitzgerald. Dreams of a beautiful life have been the ruins of many a poor girl… And the story keeps repeating. View all 6 comments. Aug 06, Brian Yahn rated it it was amazing Shelves: How does one review something so good? Are there even words to do it?

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Here's my attempt: Holly Golightly is an interesting enough character to fill ten libraries. She crept into my thoughts regularly for months after reading the book, and I still think about her quite often to this day, like a long-lost lover, but more fondly. I've never quite enjoyed prose like this either. I mean, every single sentence I liked. There wasn't one in the whole book where I thought, "you know, this one's the bad one How does one review something so good?

There wasn't one in the whole book where I thought, "you know, this one's the bad one. Structurally, it's a masterpiece. The pacing is perfect. It's one of those books that you read, and when you finish it, you're a little sad, because you know you found THAT book, and you know you'll probably never find a book you like this much again.

I want to say something bad about it, but I just can't think of anything. View 2 comments. Nov 01, Duane rated it it was amazing Shelves: Holly Golightly, the heroine of Capote's novel, is one of the iconic characters in American literature. And Audrey Hepburn's portrayal in the movie three years later helped to assure Holly's immortality.

View all 5 comments. Well, what can one say about Holly Golightly. She was beautiful, she was mean, she was independent, sometimes cruel, sometimes caring.

Holly was as free as a bird, but shackled by her birth. She was temptress and torturer. She was glue and glamorous. Holly was light and darkness. She conquered and crashed. She loved and loathed. Honest is more what I mean. Not law-type honest -- I'd rob a grave, I'd steal two-bits off a dead man's e Well, what can one say about Holly Golightly. Not law-type honest -- I'd rob a grave, I'd steal two-bits off a dead man's eyes if I thought it would contribute to the day's enjoyment -- but unto-thyself-type honest.

Be anything but a coward, a pretender, an emotional crook, a whore: I'd rather have cancer than a dishonest heart. Which isn't being pious. Just practical. Cancer may cool you, but the other's sure to. Oh, screw it, cookie -- hand me my guitar, and I'll sing you a fada in the most perfect Portuguese. But Holly was also 'pampered, calmly immaculate, as though she'd been attended by Cleopatra's maids'. Since the age of fourteen she was on her own, taking care of her brother Fred, who was in the army.

He loved peanut butter, which she bought for him anywhere she could find it during the war times. Could be. They say the more stupid you are the braver. He's pretty stupid. I didn't realize he was a soldier. But he does look stupid. Not stupid. He wants awfully to be on the inside staring out: Anyhow, he's a different Fred.

Fred's my brother. What captured me the most is the way this young woman was presented to the world. Someone who could be loved; a young woman who could become a friend. She had heart and soul. She was warm and wonderful. But just as cold and calculating, since she did not quite trust the people's intentions towards her and therefore never really allowed herself to bond with anyone. A tragic figure. A statistic for the cognoscenti, the people who despised the likes of her.

The film adaptation of this novella was very different from the book. I suspect nobody wanted to play the lead role of Holly, since it was unacceptable for their careers. But I adore him now, after all I've been going to see him every Thursday for seven months, and I think I'd go even if he didn't pay me.

This one's mushy," she said, and aimed the rest of the apple out the window. He used to come to Joe Bell's bar, the one around the corner: But it's funny to remember back and realize how closely he must have been watching me, because right after they sent him up Joe Bell showed me his picture in the paper.

All that mumbo jumbo: It said to contact him immediately for information to my advantage. I figured Bergdorf was trying to collect. But I took the gamble and went to see this lawyer if he is a lawyer, which I doubt, since he doesn't seem to have an office, just an answering service, and he always wants to meet you in Hamburg Heaven: He asked me how I'd like to cheer up a lonely old man, at the same time pick up a hundred a week.

I told him look, darling, you've got the wrong Miss Golightly, I'm not a nurse that does tricks on the side. I wasn't impressed by the honorarium either; you can do as well as that on trips to the powder room: But then he told me his client was Sally Tomato. Well, I couldn't: It doesn't sound right. In fact they make quite a boring fuss. I'm supposed to be his niece. For an hour's conversation he gives you a hundred dollars? O'Shaughnessy mails it to me in cash as soon as I leave the weather report.

After all, you're not his niece.

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And what about this weather report? Just messages I leave with the answering service so Mr. O'Shaughnessy will know for sure that I've been up there. Sally tells me what to say, things like, oh, 'there's a hurricane in Cuba' and 'it's snowing in Palermo. I only want to rest a moment. So let's don't say another word. Bells in the tower of the next-door church rang the half-hour, the hour. It was six when she put her hand on my arm, a fragile touch careful not to waken.

Because it's cold. There's snow in the wind. Miss Holiday Golightly, Traveling: Bless you darling Fred. Please forgive the other night. You were an angel about the whole thing. Mille tendresse — Holly. I won't bother you again. I replied, Please do , and left this note at her door with what I could afford, a bunch of street- vendor violets. But apparently she'd meant what she said; I neither saw nor heard from her, and I gathered she'd gone so far as to obtain a downstairs key.

At any rate she no longer rang my bell. I missed that; and as the days merged I began to feel toward her certain far-fetched resentments, as if I were being neglected by my closest friend.

A disquieting loneliness came into my life, but it induced no hunger for friends of longer acquaintance: By Wednesday thoughts of Holly, of Sing Sing and Sally Tomato, of worlds where men forked over fifty dollars for the powder room, were so constant that I couldn't work.

That night I left a message in her mailbox: Tomorrow is Thursday. The next morning rewarded me with a second note in the play-pen script: Bless you for reminding me.

Can you stop for a drink tonight 6-ish? I waited until ten past six, then made myself delay five minutes more. A creature answered the door. He smelled of cigars and Knize cologne. His shoes sported elevated heels; without these added inches, one might have taken him for a Little Person. His bald freckled head was dwarf-big: He had Pekingese eyes, unpitying and slightly bulged.

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Tufts of hair sprouted from his ears, from his nose; his jowls were gray with afternoon beard, and his handshake almost furry. The room in which we stood we were standing because there was nothing to sit on seemed as though it were being just moved into; you expected to smell wet paint. Suitcases and unpacked crates were the only furniture.

The crates served as tables. One supported the mixings of a martini; another a lamp, a Libertyphone, Holly's red cat and a bowl of yellow roses. Bookcases, covering one wall, boasted a half-shelf of literature.

I warmed to the room at once, I liked its fly-by-night look. The man cleared his throat. His cold eyes operated on me, made neat, exploratory incisions. You know the kid long? This is unbelievable. But the kid don't know how to live even when she's got the dough. She is a phony. But on the other hand you're right. She isn't a phony because she's a real phony.

She believes all this crap she believes. You can't talk her out of it. I've tried with tears running down my cheeks. Benny Polan, respected everywhere, Benny Polan tried. Benny had it on his mind to marry her, she don't go for it, Benny spent maybe thousands sending her to head-shrinkers.

Even the famous one, the one can only speak German, boy, did he throw in the towel. You can't talk her out of these" — he made a fist, as though to crush an intangible — "ideas. Try it sometime. Get her to tell you some of the stuff she believes. Mind you," he said, "I like the kid. Everybody does, but there's lots that don't. I sincerely like the kid. I'm sensitive, that's why. You've got to be sensitive to appreciate her: But I'll tell you the truth. You can beat your brains out for her, and she'll hand you horseshit on a platter.

To give an example — who is she like you see her today? She's strictly a girl you'll read where she ends up at the bottom of a bottle of Seconals. I've seen it happen more times than you've got toes: She's nuts. And with a great deal of youth ahead of her. Now a couple of years back, out on the Coast, there was a time it could've been different. She had something working for her, she had them interested, she could've really rolled. But when you walk out on a thing like that, you don't walk back.

Ask Luise Rainer. And Rainer was a star. Sure, Holly was no star; she never got out of the still department.

But that was before The Story of Dr. Then she could've really rolled. I know, see, cause I'm the guy was giving her the push.

It developed that he was a Hollywood actor's agent. Out at Santa Anita. She's hanging around the track every day. I'm interested: I find out she's some jock's regular, she's living with the shrimp. I get the jock told Drop It if he don't want conversation with the vice boys: But stylish: Even when she's wearing glasses this thick; even when she opens her mouth and you don't know if she's a hillbilly or an Okie or what.

I still don't. My guess, nobody'll ever know where she came from. She's such a goddamn liar, maybe she don't know herself any more. But it took us a year to smooth out that accent.

How we did it finally, we gave her French lessons: We modeled her along the Margaret Sullavan type, but she could pitch some curves of her own, people were interested, big ones, and to top it all, Benny Polan, a respected guy, Benny wants to marry her. An agent could ask for more? Then wham! The Story of Dr. You see that picture? Cecil B. Gary Cooper. I kill myself, it's all set: Wassell's nurse. One of his nurses, anyway. The phone rings.

I say get your ass on a plane and get back here, she says I don't want it. I say what's your angle, doll? She says you got to want it to be good and I don't want it, I say well, what the hell do you want, and she says when I find out you'll be the first to know.

See what I mean: He lifted the cat on the toe of his shoe and gave him a toss, which was hateful of him except he seemed not aware of the cat but merely his own irritableness. Living off tips. Running around with bums. So maybe she could marry Rusty Trawler? You should pin a medal on her for that? Bad deal," he said, his tongue clucking in his huge head. Could level with the kid before it's too late. Like I told you," he said, and now it sounded true, "I sincerely like the kid. That you're nuts.

You're such a slob. You always nigger-lip. He perched there with the balance of a bird, his paws tangled in her hair as if it were knitting yarn; and yet, despite these amiable antics, it was a grim cat with a pirate's cutthroat face; one eye was gluey-blind, the other sparkled with dark deeds.

What's David O. Selznick's number, O. I want you to call him up and tell him what a genius Fred is. He's written barrels of the most marvelous stories. Well, don't blush, Fred: Come on, O. What are you going to do to make Fred rich?

Another thing: And if anybody knocks, let them in. Within the next quarter-hour a stag party had taken over the apartment, several of them in uniform. I counted two Naval officers and an Air Force colonel; but they were outnumbered by graying arrivals beyond draft status. Except for a lack of youth, the guests had no common theme, they seemed strangers among strangers; indeed, each face, on entering, had struggled to conceal dismay at seeing others there.

It was as if the hostess had distributed her invitations while zigzagging through various bars; which was probably the case.

After the initial frowns, however, they mixed without grumbling, especially O. Berman, who avidly exploited the new company to avoid discussing my Hollywood future. I was left abandoned by the bookshelves; of the books there, more than half were about horses, the rest baseball.

Pretending an interest in Horseflesh and How to Tell It gave me sufficiently private opportunity for sizing Holly's friends. Presently one of these became prominent. He was a middle-aged child that had never shed its baby fat, though some gifted tailor had almost succeeded in camouflaging his plump and spankable bottom.

There wasn't a suspicion of bone in his body; his face, a zero filled in with pretty miniature features, had an unused, a virginal quality: But it was not appearance that singled him out; preserved infants aren't all that rare.

It was, rather, his conduct; for he was behaving as though the party were his: In fairness, most of his activities were dictated by the hostess herself: Rusty, would you mind; Rusty, would you please.

If he was in love with her, then clearly he had his jealousy in check. A jealous man might have lost control, watching her as she skimmed around the room, carrying her cat in one hand but leaving the other free to straighten a tie or remove lapel lint; the Air Force colonel wore a medal that came in for quite a polish. The man's name was Rutherfurd "Rusty" Trawler. In he'd lost both his parents, his father the victim of an anarchist and his mother of shock, which double misfortune had made Rusty an orphan, a millionaire, and a celebrity, all at the age of five.

He'd been a stand-by of the Sunday supplements ever since, a consequence that had gathered hurricane momentum when, still a schoolboy, he had caused his godfather-custodian to be arrested on charges of sodomy. After that, marriage and divorce sustained his place in the tabloid-sun. His first wife had taken herself, and her alimony, to a rival of Father Divine's.

The second wife seems unaccounted for, but the third had sued him in New York State with a full satchel of the kind of testimony that entails. He himself divorced the last Mrs. Trawler, his principal complaint stating that she'd started a mutiny aboard his yacht, said mutiny resulting in his being deposited on the Dry Tortugas. Though he'd been a bachelor since, apparently before the war he'd proposed to Unity Mitford, at least he was supposed to have sent her a cable offering to marry her if Hitler didn't.

This was said to be the reason Winchell always referred to him as a Nazi; that, and the fact that he attended rallies in Yorkville. I was not told these things.

I read them in The Baseball Guide , another selection off Holly's shelf which she seemed to use for a scrapbook. Tucked between the pages were Sunday features, together with scissored snippings from gossip columns. Holly came up from behind, and caught me reading: I said, "What was this week's weather report? There're so few things men can talk about. If a man doesn't like baseball, then he must like horses, and if he doesn't like either of them, well, I'm in trouble anyway: And how are you making out with O.

But what have I to offer that would strike him as an opportunity? He really can help you, Fred. Not because they would have given me the part or because I would have been good: If I do feel guilty, I guess it's because I let him go on dreaming when I wasn't dreaming a bit. I was just vamping for time to make a few self-improvements: I knew damn well I'd never be a movie star. It's too hard; and if you're intelligent, it's too embarrassing. My complexes aren't inferior enough: I don't mean I'd mind being rich and famous.

That's very much on my schedule, and someday I'll try to get around to it; but if it happens, I'd like to have my ego tagging along. I want to still be me when I wake up one fine morning and have breakfast at Tiffany's. You need a glass," she said, noticing my empty hands. Will you bring my friend a drink? It's a little inconvenient, his not having a name. But I haven't any right to give him one: We just sort of took up by the river one day, we don't belong to each other: I don't want to own anything until I know I've found the place where me and things belong together.

I'm not quite sure where that is just yet. But I know what it's like. Diamonds, yes. But it's tacky to wear diamonds before you're forty; and even that's risky. They only look right on the really old girls.

Maria Ouspenskaya. Wrinkles and bones, white hair and diamonds: I can't wait. But that's not why I'm mad about Tiffany's. You know those days when you've got the mean reds? You're sad, that's all. But the mean reds are horrible. You're afraid and you sweat like hell, but you don't know what you're afraid of.

Except something bad is going to happen, only you don't know what it is. You've had that feeling? Some people call it angst. But what do you do about it? I've tried aspirin, too. Rusty thinks I should smoke marijuana, and I did for a while, but it only makes me giggle.

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, the quietness and the proud look of it; nothing very bad could happen to you there, not with those kind men in their nice suits, and that lovely smell of silver and alligator wallets.

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. I've thought maybe after the war, Fred and I — " She pushed up her dark glasses, and her eyes, the differing colors of them, the grays and wisps of blue and green, had taken on a far-seeing sharpness. It's wonderful country for raising horses.

I saw one place near the sea. Fred's good with horses. You know what the doctor said. I know what the doctor said.

Let's go. Still he continued, as though it were a ritual: And when I'm ready, we'll go eat wherever you want. Besides, he had a stinking childhood. Can't you see it's just that Rusty feels safer in diapers than he would in a skirt?

Which is really the choice, only he's awfully touchy about it. He tried to stab me with a butter knife because I told him to grow up and face the issue, settle down and play house with a nice fatherly truck driver. Meantime, I've got him on my hands; which is okay, he's harmless, he thinks girls are dolls, literally. Even land in Mexico costs something. Now," she said, motioning me forward, "let's get hold of O.

Then I remembered: Just provocative. So I told them to put Traveling. Anyway, it was a waste of money, ordering those cards. Except I felt I owed it to them to buy some little some thing.

They're from Tiffany's. You're going to make friends with O. It was a young woman, and she entered like a wind-rush, a squall of scarves and jangling gold. Hogging all these simply r-r-riveting m-m-men! They straightened their spines, sucked in their stomachs; there was a general contest to match her swaying height. Holly said, "What are you doing here? I've been upstairs working with Yunioshi. Christmas stuff for the Ba-ba-zaar. But you sound vexed, sugar?

He squeezed her arm, as though to admire her muscle, and asked her if she could use a drink. I'm happy with ammonia. Holly, honey," she said, slightly shoving her, "don't you bother about me. I can introduce myself. Berman, who, like many short men in the presence of tall women, had an aspiring mist in his eye.

That's hill country. He lost her to a quadrille of partners who gobbled up her stammered jokes like popcorn tossed to pigeons.

It was a comprehensible success. She was a triumph over ugliness, so often more beguiling than real beauty, if only because it contains paradox. In this case, as opposed to the scrupulous method of plain good taste and scientific grooming, the trick had been worked by exaggerating defects; she'd made them ornamental by admitting them boldly. Heels that emphasized her height, so steep her ankles trembled; a flat tight bodice that indicated she could go to a beach in bathing trunks; hair that was pulled straight back, accentuating the spareness, the starvation of her fashion-model face.

Even the stutter, certainly genuine but still a bit laid on, had been turned to advantage. It was the master stroke, that stutter; for it contrived to make her banalities sound somehow original, and secondly, despite her tallness, her assurance, it served to inspire in male listeners a protective feeling. To illustrate: Berman had to be pounded on the back because she said, "Who can tell me w-w-where is the j-j-john?

She's been here before. She knows where it is. You'd think it would show more. But heaven knows, she looks healthy. So, well, clean. That's the extraordinary part. Wouldn't you," she asked with concern, but of no one in particular, "wouldn't you say she looked clean?

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A Naval officer, who had been holding Mag Wildwood's drink, put it down. Mag Wildwood couldn't understand it, the abrupt absence of warmth on her return; the conversations she began behaved like green logs, they fumed but would not fire. More unforgivably, people were leaving without taking her telephone number. The Air Force colonel decamped while her back was turned, and this was the straw too much: Suddenly she was blind.

And since gin to artifice bears the same relation as tears to mascara, her attractions at once dissembled. She took it out on everyone. She called her hostess a Hollywood degenerate. She invited a man in his fifties to fight. She told Berman, Hitler was right.

She exhilarated Rusty Trawler by stiff-arming him into a comer. Get up from there," Holly said, stretching on a pair of gloves. The remnants of the party were waiting at the door, and when the bore didn't budge Holly cast me an apologetic glance. Put her in a taxi. She lives at the Winslow. Live Barbizon. Regent Ask for Mag Wildwood. The prospect of steering an Amazon into a taxi obliterated whatever resentment I felt.

But she solved the problem herself. Rising on her own steam, she stared down at me with a lurching loftiness. She said, "Let's go Stork. Catch lucky balloon," and fell full-length like an axed oak. My first thought was to run for a doctor. But examination proved her pulse fine and her breathing regular.

She was simply asleep. After finding a pillow for her head, I left her to enjoy it. The following afternoon I collided with Holly on the stairs. A hang-over out to here. And the mean reds on top of it. Over the weekend, mystery deepened. First, there was the Latin who came to my door: It took a while to correct his error, our accents seemed mutually incoherent, but by the time we had I was charmed. He'd been put together with care, his brown head and bullfighter's figure had an exactness, a perfection, like an apple, an orange, something nature has made just right.

Added to this, as decoration, were an English suit and a brisk cologne and, what is still more unlatin, a bashful manner. The second event of the day involved him again. It was toward evening, and I saw him on my way out to dinner. He was arriving in a taxi; the driver helped him totter into the house with a load of suitcases. That gave me something to chew on: Then the picture became both darker and clearer.

Sunday was an Indian summer day, the sun was strong, my window was open, and I heard voices on the fire escape. Holly and Mag were sprawled there on a blanket, the cat between them.

Their hair, newly washed, hung lankly. They were busy. Holly varnishing her toenails, Mag knitting on a sweater. Mag was speaking. At least there's one thing you can say for Rusty. He's an American. There's a war on. I'm p-p-proud of my country. The men in my family were great soldiers. There's a statue of Papadaddy Wildwood smack in the center of Wildwood. Could be. They say the more stupid you are the braver.

He's pretty stupid. I didn't realize he was a soldier. But he does look stupid. Not stupid. He wants awfully to be on the inside staring out: Anyhow, he's a different Fred. Fred's my brother. A boy that's fighting for you and me and all of us. I appreciate a joke, but underneath I'm a s-s-serious person. Proud to be an American. And being a B-b-brazilian myself.

It's such a canyon to cross. Six thousand miles, and not knowing the language — " "Go to Berlitz. It isn't as though anyone spoke it. It's such a useless thing for a man to want to be: You saw us together. Do you think I'm madly in love? Does he bite? In bed. Should he? That's the right spirit. I like a man who sees the humor; most of them, they're all pant and puff. I suppose. He doesn't bite.

He laughs. What else? And it isn't that I don't want to tell you. But it's so difficult to remember. I don't d-d-dwell on these things. The way you seem to. They go out of my head like a dream. I'm sure that's the n-n-normal attitude. If you can't remember, try leaving the lights on. I'm a very- very-very conventional person. What's wrong with a decent look at a guy you like? Does that answer your question? Because I'm not a cold plate of m-m-macaroni.

I'm a warm-hearted person. It's the basis of my character. You've got a warm heart. But if I were a man on my way to bed. I'd rather take along a hot-water bottle. It's more tangible. Do you realize I've knitted ten pairs of Argyles in less than three months? And this is the second sweater.

Sweaters in Brazil. I ought to be making s-s-sun helmets. Actually, I'd like that. Miss Golightly and Miss Wildwood were now traveling together. This might have held my interest longer except for a letter in my own mailbox. It was from a small university review to whom I'd sent a story. They liked it; and, though I must understand they could not afford to pay, they intended to publish. Dizzy with excitement is no mere phrase. I had to tell someone: I didn't trust my voice to tell the news; as soon as she came to the door, her eyes squinty with sleep, I thrust the letter at her.

It seemed as though she'd had time to read sixty pages before she handed it back. Perhaps my face explained she'd misconstrued, that I'd not wanted advice but congratulations: It's wonderful. Well, come in," she said. I'll get dressed and take you to lunch. In the parlor there was no conventional furniture, but the bedroom had the bed itself, a double one at that, and quite flashy: She left the door of the bathroom open, and conversed from there; between the flushing and the brushing, most of what she said was unintelligible, but the gist of it was: One could see that Holly had a laundry problem; the room was strewn, like a girl's gymnasium.

But a good thing," she said, hobbling out of the bathroom as she adjusted a garter. And there shouldn't be too much trouble on the man front. She's engaged. Nice guy, too. Though there's a tiny difference in height: I'd say a foot, her favor. Where the hell — " She was on her knees poking under the bed. After she'd found what she was looking for, a pair of lizard shoes, she had to search for a blouse, a belt, and it was a subject to ponder, how, from such wreckage, she evolved the eventual effect: She said, "Listen," and cupped her hand under my chin, "I'm glad about the story.

Really I am. A beautiful day with the buoyancy of a bird. To start, we had Manhattans at Joe Bell's; and, when he heard of my good luck, champagne cocktails on the house. Later, we wandered toward Fifth Avenue, where there was a parade.

The flags in the wind, the thump of military bands and military feet, seemed to have nothing to do with war, but to be, rather, a fanfare arranged in my personal honor. We ate lunch at the cafeteria in the park.

Afterwards, avoiding the zoo Holly said she couldn't bear to see anything in a cage , we giggled, ran, sang along the paths toward the old wooden boathouse, now gone.

Leaves floated on the lake; on the shore, a park-man was fanning a bonfire of them, and the smoke, rising like Indian signals, was the only smudge on the quivering air. Aprils have never meant much to me, autumns seem that season of beginning, spring; which is how I felt sitting with Holly on the railings of the boathouse porch.

I 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: Or, I asked, wasn't it true that she'd been out on her own since she was fourteen?

She rubbed her nose. The other isn't. But really, darling, you made such a tragedy out of your childhood I didn't feel I should compete. I ought to send Fred some peanut butter. It was near the antique shop with the palace of a bird cage in its window, so I took her there to see it, and she enjoyed the point, its fantasy: Don't be chicken.

The saleslady was occupied with a group of nuns who were trying on masks. Holly picked up a mask and slipped it over her face; she chose another and put it on mine; then she took my hand and we walked away. It was as simple as that. Outside, we ran a few blocks, I think to make it more dramatic; but also because, as I'd discovered, successful theft exhilarates. I wondered if she'd often stolen. If I wanted anything. But I still do it every now and then, sort of to keep my hand in.

I have a memory of spending many hither and yonning days with Holly; and it's true, we did at odd moments see a great deal of each other; but on the whole, the memory is false. Because toward the end of the month I found a job: The less the better, except to say it was necessary and lasted from nine to five.

Which made our hours, Holly's and mine, extremely different. Unless it was Thursday, her Sing Sing day, or unless she'd gone horseback riding in the park, as she did occasionally, Holly was hardly up when I came home. Sometimes, stopping there, I shared her wake-up coffee while she dressed for the evening. As a quartet, they struck an unmusical note, primarily the fault of Ybarra-Jaegar, who seemed as out of place in their company as a violin in a jazz band.

He was intelligent, he was presentable, he appeared to have a serious link with his work, which was obscurely governmental, vaguely important, and took him to Washington several days a week. How, then, could he survive night after night in La Rue, El Morocco, listening to the Wildwood ch-ch-chatter and staring into Rusty's raw baby-buttocks face? Perhaps, like most of us in a foreign country, he was incapable of placing people, selecting a frame for their picture, as he would at home; therefore all Americans had to be judged in a pretty equal light, and on this basis his companions appeared to be tolerable examples of local color and national character.

That would explain much; Holly's determination explains the rest. Late one afternoon, while waiting for a Fifth Avenue bus, I noticed a taxi stop across the street to let out a girl who ran up the steps of the Forty-second Street public library. She was through the doors before I recognized her, which was pardonable, for Holly and libraries were not an easy association to make. I let curiosity guide me between the lions, debating on the way whether I should admit following her or pretend coincidence.

In the end I did neither, but concealed myself some tables away from her in the general reading room, where she sat behind her dark glasses and a fortress of literature she'd gathered at the desk. She sped from one book to the next, intermittently lingering on a page, always with a frown, as if it were printed upside down. She had a pencil poised above paper — nothing seemed to catch her fancy, still now and then, as though for the hell of it, she made laborious scribblings.

Watching her, I remembered a girl I'd known in school, a grind, Mildred Grossman. Earth and air could not be more opposite than Mildred and Holly, yet in my head they acquired a Siamese twinship, and the thread of thought that had sewn them together ran like this: All right, here were two people who never would. That is what Mildred Grossman had in common with Holly Golightly.

They would never change because they'd been given their character too soon; which, like sudden riches, leads to a lack of proportion: I imagined them in a restaurant of the future, Mildred still studying the menu for its nutritional values, Holly still gluttonous for everything on it.

It would never be different. They would walk through life and out of it with the same determined step that took small notice of those cliffs at the left. Such profound observations made me forget where I was; I came to, startled to find myself in the gloom of the library, and surprised all over again to see Holly there. It was after seven, she was freshening her lipstick and perking up her appearance from what she deemed correct for a library to what, by adding a bit of scarf, some earrings, she considered suitable for the Colony.

When she'd left, I wandered over to the table where her books remained; they were what I had wanted to see. South by Thunderbird. And so forth. On Christmas Eve she and Mag gave a party. Holly asked me to come early and help trim the tree. I'm still not sure how they maneuvered that tree into the apartment.

The top branches were crushed against the ceiling, the lower ones spread wall-to-wall; altogether it was not unlike the yuletide giant we see in Rockefeller Plaza. Moreover, it would have taken a Rockefeller to decorate it, for it soaked up baubles and tinsel like melting snow. Holly suggested she run out to Woolworth's and steal some balloons; she did: We made a toast to our work, and Holly said: There's a present for you.

It's dreadful! Three hundred and fifty dollars! Promise me, though. Promise you'll never put a living thing in it. Christopher's medal. But at least it came from Tiffany's. Holly was not a girl who could keep anything, and surely by now she has lost that medal, left it in a suitcase or some hotel drawer.

But the bird cage is still mine. Yet I seldom remember that it was Holly who gave it to me, because at one point I chose to forget: Berman and my story, a copy of which I'd given Holly when it appeared in the university review.

Our altercation happened soon after she returned. She was brown as iodine, her hair was sun-bleached to a ghost-color, she'd had a wonderful time: Dearest Mag ended up in the hospital, too. First-degree sunburn. We couldn't stand the smell of her. He says wait till I see Rio; but as far as I'm concerned Havana can take my money right now. We had an irresistible guide, most of him Negro and the rest of him Chinese, and while I don't go much for one or the other, the combination was fairly riveting: There he was on the screen.

So was Rusty: Actually, things were pretty tense until I had a heart-to-heart with Mag. A recognizable piece of furniture had been added to the room: God, yes.

I simply told — but you know: Why do you think she went out and bought this army cot? Feave it to me: I'm always top banana in the shock department. Be a darling, darling, rub some oil on my back. Berman's in town, and listen, I gave him your story in the magazine.

He was quite impressed. He thinks maybe you're worth helping. But he says you're on the wrong track.

See a Problem?

Negroes and children: Berman, I gather. I read that story twice. Brats and niggers. Trembling leaves. It doesn't mean anything.

In your opinion.