By Truman Capote
Taking its position subsequent to Breakfast at Tiffany's and In chilly Blood at the smooth Library bookshelf is that this new and unique version of Capote's most famed brief tales: "A Christmas reminiscence, " "One Christmas, " and "A Thanksgiving Memory." All 3 tales are exceptional by means of Capote's smooth interaction of youth sensibility and recollective imaginative and prescient.
Read or Download A Christmas Memory: One Christmas, and The Thanksgiving Visitor (Modern Library) PDF
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Additional resources for A Christmas Memory: One Christmas, and The Thanksgiving Visitor (Modern Library)
They name him Haha simply because he’s so gloomy, a guy who by no means laughs. As we process his café (a huge log cabin festooned in and out with chains of garish-gay bare mild bulbs and status by way of the river’s muddy facet lower than the colour of river timber the place moss drifts during the branches like grey mist) our steps decelerate. Even Queenie stops prancing and sticks within sight. humans were murdered in Haha’s café. lower to items. Hit at the head. There’s a case arising in courtroom subsequent month. evidently those goings-on take place at evening whilst the coloured lighting solid loopy styles and the victrola wails. within the daylight hours Haha’s is shabby and abandoned. I knock on the door, Queenie barks, my buddy calls: “Mrs. Haha, ma’am? someone to domestic? ” Footsteps. The door opens. Our hearts overturn. It’s Mr. Haha Jones himself! And he's a huge; he does have scars; he doesn’t smile. No, he glowers at us via Satan-tilted eyes and calls for to grasp: “What you will want with Haha? ” For a second we're too paralyzed to inform. almost immediately my good friend half-finds her voice, a whispery voice at top: “If you please, Mr. Haha, we’d like a quart of your best whiskey. ” His eyes tilt extra. could you think it? Haha is smiling! guffawing, too. “Which one in every of you is a drinkin’ guy? ” “It’s for making fruitcakes, Mr. Haha. Cooking. ” This sobers him. He frowns. “That’s no option to waste solid whiskey. ” however, he retreats into the shadowed café and seconds later seems to be wearing a bottle of daisy yellow unlabeled liquor. He demonstrates its sparkle within the solar and says: “Two funds. ” We pay him with nickels and dimes and pennies. without warning, jangling the cash in his hand like a fistful of cube, his face softens. “Tell you what,” he proposes, pouring the money again into our bead handbag, “just ship me certainly one of them fruitcakes in its place. ” “Well,” my good friend comments on our manner domestic, “there’s a beautiful guy. We’ll positioned an additional cup of raisins in his cake. ” The black range, stoked with coal and firewood, glows like a lighted pumpkin. Eggbeaters whirl, spoons spin around in bowls of butter and sugar, vanilla sweetens the air, ginger spices it; melting, nose-tingling odors saturate the kitchen, suffuse the home, flow out to the realm on puffs of chimney smoke. In 4 days our paintings is finished. Thirty-one muffins, dampened with whiskey, bask on window sills and cabinets. who're they for? neighbors. now not inevitably neighbor pals: certainly, the bigger percentage are meant for people we’ve met probably as soon as, might be by no means. humans who’ve struck our fancy. Like President Roosevelt. just like the Reverend and Mrs. J. C. Lucey, Baptist missionaries to Borneo who lectured the following final wintry weather. Or the little knife grinder who comes via city two times a 12 months. Or Abner Packer, the motive force of the six o’clock bus from cellular, who exchanges waves with us each day as he passes in a dust-cloud whoosh. Or the younger Wistons, a California couple whose automobile one afternoon broke down outdoor the home and who spent a delightful hour talking to us at the porch (young Mr. Wiston snapped our photograph, the single one we’ve ever had taken).