Fuck Oprah

As you know -- to use an expression I hear more often than I care for --, on Sunday while watching Capote I was impelled to seek out a copy of In Cold Blood. By next day that impulse was quickly forgotten; and, who knows, things might have remained that way for eternity had not fate intervened on my behalf. On Tuesday, bored and finished work early, I decided to peruse the shelves at the Seohyeon Book Center (서현 문고). First I picked up Jared Diamond's Guns, Germs, and Steel, which, because I'm not a big reader of non-fiction -- particularly historical non-fiction --, I had been intrigued by but had never purchased; second, much to my own surprise and delight (even though, in recent years, he has become to me the abusive or alcoholic spouse of literature: I keep hoping he's changed, yet -- After the Quake and the first two thirds of Kafka on the Shore notwithstanding -- he reliably lets me down), I saw Haruki Murakami's recently-released collection of short stories, Blind Willow, Sleeping Woman, and picked that up, too. I was then a happy man; content that I had secured two good, lengthy reads, I considered walking downstairs to finalize the visit, but because time was on my side like Mick Jagger, I postponed the descension in favor of wasting time amongst rows of inanimate friends both hardcover and paperback, discerning, like a despot with a sixth sense for quality literature, which books I might possibly emancipate in a present or future time.

Not 30 seconds later, upon entering between two new shelves of homeless classics, were my eyes drawn downward, as though by magnetic force, almost to floor-level, toward the book I had so capriciously desired 48 hours prior and just as quickly forgotten, like a one-night stand, the following morning. There my eyes alighted upon three copies of Truman Capote's In Cold Blood.

Like a gentle heart selecting a soon-to-be euthanized canine from an animal shelter, I compared the three copies and chose the one best preserved, stroking its spine and supple edges, inwardly assuring it Don't worry, little one; you're safe now. I'll give you a good home.

Like a reliable woman or a tasty lager, great books find you. I truly believe that. Yesterday and this evening I read the first part (The Last to See Them Alive) of Capote's "non-fiction novel", and I thought I'd dispense some thoughts. Sometimes one is so awed by a work of art that he or she cannot resist sharing his or her experience with others. We as human beings instinctively want the people whom we love and admire (and those whom we hate; there's probably a little of that, too) to share our experiences -- to take the same profound journeys which mold and shape our imaginations. Such is the impetus of all art, and, as is quite evident, the driving force and ethos of Psychedelic Kimchi. Naturally there are those who will disagree with our assessments. As an example, I might be the only person alive who considers the original Weekend at Bernie's to be a touchstone of cinematic greatness; and Idealjetsam, ever the Magneto to my Professor X, is always wont to remind me that he thinks Fyodor Dostoevsky the literary world's greatest con man. Furthermore, for my part, I've made it clear in posts past that I loathe the writing styles of Messrs Hemingway and Joyce -- much, I'm sure, to the consternation of the talented TMH.

Yet, regardless of our (and here I mean everyone, not just the sausage-fest which comprises the PK collective) religious, political, sexual et al. bent, we persist, trying, usually in vain, to convert the wicked, the ignorant, the blind, deaf, and dumb, in hopes that they will see the light, share our interests, or cease their evil ways -- and, most of all, stop using so many fucking commas.

***

Truman Capote possessed a writing style that was both innate and sublime. I don't often get jealous when reading an(other) author's work (because I'm such a gifted writer, see), but Capote -- much like my favorite English-language writers Sommerset Maugham, Joseph Conrad, Rudyard Kipling and Jack London, among others -- makes me contemplate the futility of my passion. I can turn an awesome phrase or two, I'm aware, but Capote's talent for language and prose causes me to cower in fear. In hip-hop dialect, the motherfucker makes me shook; as a basketball analogy, it's as though I'm John Starks and he's MJ: sure, I might get in a highlight reel dunk, but at the end of the day who's the one with six rings and enough awards and accolades to stuff a silo or airplane hangar?

Exibit A: some excerpts from the book, the first two of which were ostensibly -- amazingly -- scribed verbatim from a correspondence and an interview, respectively.

You are a man of extreme passion, a hungry man not quite sure where his appetite lies, a deeply frustrated man striving to project his individuality against a backdrop of rigid conformity. You exist in a half-world suspended between two superstructures, one self-expression and the other self-destruction. You are strong, but there is a flaw in your strength, and unless you learn to control it the flaw will prove stronger than your strength and defeat you. The flaw? Explosive emotional reaction out of all proportion to the occasion. Why? Why this unreasonable anger at the sight of others who are happy or content, this growing contempt for people and the desire to hurt them? All right, you think they're fools, you despise them because their morals, their happiness, is the source of your frustration and resentment. But these are dreadful enemies you carry within yourself -- in time destructive as bullets. Mercifully, a bullet kills its victim. This other bacteria, permitted to age, does not kill a man but leaves in its wake the hulk of a creature torn and twisted; there is still fire within his being but it is kept alive by casting upon it faggots of scorn and hate. He may successfully accumulate, but he does not accumulate success, for he is his own enemy and is kept from truly enjoying his achievements.

Go ahead and marinate on that for a minute.

"I'm not surprised," Mrs. Clare said. "When you think how Herb Clutter spent his whole life in a hurry, rushing in here to get his mail with never a minute to good-morning-and-thank-you-dog, rushing around like a chicken with its head off -- joining clubs, running everything, getting jobs maybe other people wanted. And now look -- it's all caught up with him. Well he won't be rushing any more.

"Why, Myrt? Why won't he?"

Mrs. Clare raised her voice. "BECAUSE HE'S DEAD. And Bonnie, too. And Nancy. And the boy. Somebody shot them."

Ice cold.

And my favorite simile in the history of similes:

Except for taking off his boots, he had not troubled to undress. He had merely fallen face down across the bed, as though sleep were a weapon that had struck him from behind.

Perfect.

The juxtaposition of the two fates -- the killers' and the Clutters' -- is spellbinding*, gripping. Stephen King is just one of many authors I've read who has adopted this technique to sexy results, but never has it been so effective, so chilling. Coupled with minute details on both sides of the tragic spectrum, capably sprinkled throughout the narrative, the first part of In Cold Blood is unforgettable, indelible. Perfect.

I sincerely hope you'll join us for part two of Sparkles's look at this masterpiece. Until then, take care of yourselves, and each other.



* Every literary critic is allowed to use the adjective "spellbinding" 3 times in his or her life. This, I believe, is my first. May it be my last.