“But I'm not a saint yet. I'm an alcoholic. I'm a drug addict. I'm homosexual. I'm a genius.”
“We all, sometimes, leave each other there under the skies, and we never understand why.”
“Strange where our passions carry us, floggingly pursue us, forcing upon us unwanted dreams, unwelcome destinies.”
“Some cities, like wrapped boxes under Christmas trees, conceal unexpected gifts, secret delights. Some cities will always remain wrapped boxes, containers of riddles never to be solved, nor even to be seen by vacationing visitors, or, for that matter, the most inquisitive, persistent travelers.”
“Empecé a escribir cuando tenia ocho años,entonces no sabia que me había encadenado de por vida a un noble pero implacable amo... Cuando Dios le entrega a uno un don, también le da a uno un látigo. Y el látigo es únicamente para autoflagelarse”.”
“I'm praying for you, Mary. I want you to live forever.”
“I will say only that all a writer has to work with is the material he has gathered as the result of his own endeavor and observations, and he cannot be denied the right to use it. Condemn, but not deny.”
“Entonces, un día comencé a escribir, sin saber que me había encadenado de por vida a un noble pero implacable amo. Cuando Dios le entrega a uno un don, también le da un látigo; y el látigo es únicamente para autoflagelarse. [...] La diferencia entre escribir bien y el arte verdadero es sutil, pero brutal. (Capote, pág. 9)
»[...] En un cuento de Henry James, creo que “The Middle Years”, su personaje, un escritor en las sombras de la madurez, se lamenta: “Vivimos en la oscuridad, hacemos lo que podemos, el resto es la demencia del arte”. O palabras parecidas. En cualquier caso, míster James lo expone en toda la línea; nos está diciendo la verdad. Y la parte más negra de las sombras, la zona más demencial de la locura, es el riguroso juego que conlleva. (Capote, pp. 12-13)
»Los escritores, cuando menos aquellos que corren auténticos riesgos, que están ansiosos por morder la bala y pasar la plancha de los piratas, tienen mucho en común con otra casta de hombres solitarios: los individuos que se ganan la vida jugando al billar y dando cartas. (Capote, pág. 13)
»[...] Para empezar, creo que la mayoría de los escritores, incluso los mejores, son recargados. Yo prefiero escribir de menos. Sencilla, claramente, como arroyo del campo. (Capote, pág. 15).
»[...] Entretanto, aquí estoy en mi oscura demencia, absolutamente solo con mi baraja de naipes y, desde luego, con el látigo que Dios me dio (Capote, pág. 17)”
“Of course, I failed in several of the areas I invaded, but it is true that one learns more from a failure than one does from a success.”
“Put your arms around my neck, sweetheart."
"Whatever for?"
He grasped her wrists and lifted her arms himself. "Because," he whispered, "we're going to dance."
.....
"This will never work. I appreciate the thought. It's very sweet, but-"
"Shut up," he whispered.
The first notes of the next number drifted to them, and she realized it was the band's rendition of Montgomery's hit song, "I swear." Tears sprang to her eyes, for the instant she recognized the tune, she knew Ryan had requested it.
"Dance with me," he whispered.
"I feel foolish."
"Who'll see? Only me, and I'm our best bud, so I don't count. Besides, why should you feel foolish?"
"My legs are dangling. My feet will thump your shins."
"Those soft slippers won't hurt my shins," he assured her.
And with that, he swept her into a waltz.
-Ryan and Bethany (Phantom Waltz)”
“. . . an enemy can partly ruin a man, but it takes a good-natured injudicious friend to complete the thing and make it perfect.”
“If you choose to wear this, you’ll be marked as mine. Mine to do with as I wish. You will obey me and never question what I tell you to do.”
“I can't be yours forever, Mab," I told her, the words flying into my mouth as if by magic. "I already belong to someone else. I belong to Alice!”
“If you loved someone, you loved him, and when you had nothing else to give, you still gave him love.”
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