In Cold Blood - Truman Capote

I read this book like a creature possessed.

In between the time when I read fantasy as a child and then started my pursuit of a wider range of books these past few years, I read quite a lot of true crime, stories about serial killers mostly but it ranged to mass killings also. I enjoyed what I was reading, but guilitly so, akin to how one feels when watching porn in that I do very much love it, but I am not too fond about going onto buses or talking about it for fear of ill or the more feared, accurate judgement of my character.

Cor, am I glad Capote relates.

It is known the writing of this True Crime novel was feverish, as Capote became more and more obsessed with the events of a family massacre in a small town in Kansas during the 50′s. But who sodding cares that he almost went mad, when he came up with this seminal masterpiece?

In a prose style which largely resembles fiction, but the attentive and detailed descriptions of the grisly murders come as only True Crime does, hard-hitting and addictive, so that the writer and reader scarcely resemble the grace of flowing language which lies in such stark and sordid contrast. Tantalising words that tease, knowing they have you by the throat as they parade in such unendurably enjoyable slow pace.

This book is like crack, the best crack.

It’s the gift that keeps giving, even after you have finished your sordid affair with it, you can then swank it around and justify your own intolerable addiction like it’s something everyone else should be doing, that being dementedly consumed by such filth is an intrepid virtue.

Cheers Capote! Oh, and the money’s on the dresser.

In Cold Blood - Truman Capote