Yeah, so I happen to be falling in love with Capote. What of it?
Okay, it has zero to do with his looks, gleaned only from the black and white back covers of original Penguins. And the man was gay so even if we had coincided chronologically and geographically and socially ... well, as you can see, it's too ridiculous to even contemplate.
But my God, his mind. His sensibilities and sensitivities. His view, his outlook, his expression. He could turn phrase, but it's not just that. He saw what mattered, and he knew it mattered. From his writing, Capote seems like the kind of guy you could sit down with and talk to—really talk to, human to human. And he'd get it.
Yeah, temperamental recluse, whatever. Who cares? Love is blind, after all. I'd get him a rye on ice any time.
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