the season of beginning

That Monday in october 1943. 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 towards 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 honour.

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 towards the od wooden boathouse, now gone. Leaves floated on the lake, on the shore, a parkman 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: in short, happy in a way that she was not, and never, certainly, the backround of a child who had run away.

Or, I asked, wasn’t it true that she’d been out on her own since she was fourteen? She rubbed her nose. ‘That’s true. The other isn’t. But really, darling, you made such a tragedy out of your childhood I didn’t feel I should compete.’

(t.capote - breakfast at tiffany’s)

adorned physiques

COOKIE, the name of a nurse who had been friendly to him when he was hospitalised, was tatooed on his right biceps.

Truman Capote - In Cold Blood