Why did I think this? Because Truman Capote is a masterful reporter and writer, and I was nose-deep in his classic, In Cold Blood.
I decided to pick up the book only recently, after trying unsuccessfully to read Breakfast at Tiffany's. The latter is a lovely book as far as literature goes, but I was in my 'I f--ing HATE New York City' phase (which has since subsided somewhat), and couldn't stand to absorb any poetic waxing on the subject. Thus, still wanting to read Capote, I gravitated toward a book about brutal and senseless murder, told with obsessive detail.
And what really kills me? That it all really happened.
As a reporter, I've covered a murder trial, saw some really gory crime scene photos, and even found myself (accidentally, and completely off the clock) hanging out at a bar in the presence of the young defendant who was later to be convicted of killing his father and maiming his mother as they slept in their chintzy suburban home one chilly November night. But for all of my obsessive reporting on that story, I always felt removed and slightly in denial that any of it happened. I suspect that had something to do with the sensational nature of the case, and the modern media's tendency to paint every homicide in likeness to the Clutter murders.
But Capote, to my fear and wonder (and please note that I've only just discovered him), managed to tell the story of a sensational case without being overtly sensational. His reporting was so real and down to the very last emotional detail that the reader simply can't escape it. They're glued to it (much like many a sensational crime), but there's less comfort in the happy place when they try to extract themselves from the story.
Point taken, I thought, as I stood locked outside of my house the other day.
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