Notoriously, I have a problem with short stories.
I found an exception in 1408 by Stephen King and was still to find some other author able to transport me into another world, in just a few pages.
I found it. His name is Capote. Truman Capote.
Come on, raise your hand, those of you who didn’t fall in love with Miss Holly Golightly.
Sure enough, Audrey Hepburn made it quite easy with her interpretation in Blake Edward’s masterpiece: Breakfast at Tiffany’s.
Anyway, let’s face it: Blake Edward directed a great movie; Truman Capote though, wrote a perfect novella.
You wouldn’t think it possible to write an entire story with every words at its right place, not one more, not one less. Yet, here it is.
And it’s not like the story is a silly, boring, little thing. Au contraire, mon chéri.
Holly is a wild, crazy girl, a full throttle of perfectly reasonable nonsense, a tiny girl who jumps from one man to another, experiencing the world as if every moment was a trial, still looking for her Tiffany.
It’s not for the jewels, oh no.
Not even for the diamonds, even if she likes diamonds, but those are for older ladies.
No, Tiffany because that’s the place to go, when she gets the mean red.
“[…] nothing very bad could happen to you there, not with those kind men in their nice suits, and that lovely smell of silver and alligator wallets.”
Breakfast at Tiffany’s – Truman Capote
The young writer who tells us the story shows us only a fragment of Holly’s search, through weather broadcast and mafia bosses, rich husbands-to-be and powder rooms.
After all, she’s only looking for her personal Tiffany, a place where she would buy furniture a give the cat a name. Somewhere to call home.
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