Answered Prayers

Answered Prayers

Truman Capote

Language: English

Pages: 176

ISBN: 0679751823

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub


Although Truman Capote’s last, unfinished novel offers a devastating group portrait of the high and low society of his time.
Tracing  the career of a writer of uncertain parentage and omnivorous erotic tastes, Answered Prayers careens from a louche bar in Tangiers to a banquette at La Côte Basque, from literary salons to high-priced whorehouses. It takes in calculating beauties and sadistic husbands along with such real-life supporting characters as Colette, the Duchess of Windsor, Montgomery Clift, and Tallulah Bankhead. Above all, this malevolently finny book displays Capote at his most relentlessly observant and murderously witty.

Judas Der Erzschelm

A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court (Dover Thrift Editions)

Choke

Blue Movie

Sense and Sensibility and Sea Monsters

Willful Child

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dios, that’s hairy. Hairy. Go on,” she said. “Knock it back. You’ll like it.” It tasted to me like perfumed benzine. “Now,” she said, “I’m going to roll you some clean dice, Jones. Middle-aged men account for ninety percent of our clientele, and half our trade is offbeat stuff one way and another. So if you want to register here strictly as a straight stud, forget it. Are you with me?” “All the way.” She winked and poured herself another shot. “Tell me, Jones. Is there anything you won’t do?”.

Result in very severe retribution—by which I don’t mean mere dismissal from the service.” So: those dark Sicilian spiders are indeed the weavers of this web. “Have I made myself understood?” “Utterly.” The secretary intruded. “Mr. Wallace calling. Very urgent. I think he’s smashed.” “We are not interested in your opinions, Butch. Just put the gentleman on the line.” Presently she lifted a receiver, one of several on her desk. “Miss Self here. How are you, sir? I thought you were in Rome.

Ladies discarded their coats and were escorted by Boaty into his dark Victorian parlor, where logs were cheerfully crunching inside a marble fireplace. “His name was Kevin O’Leary. Badly suffering from the Irish virus. That’s why he didn’t know where he was going.” “Irish virus?” said Miss Bankhead. “Booze, dear,” said Miss Winwood. “Ah, booze,” sighed Miss Parker. “That’s exactly what I need,” though a slight sway in her walk suggested that another drink was exactly what she didn’t need. Miss.

Soulé abandoned the premises because of a feud with his landlord, the late president of Columbia Pictures, a sleazy Hollywood hood named Harry Cohn (who, upon learning that Sammy Davis, Jr., was “dating” his blond star Kim Novak, ordered a hit man to call Davis and tell him: “Listen, Sambo, you’re already missing one eye. How’d you like to try for none?” The next day Davis married a Las Vegas chorus girl—colored). Like Côte Basque, the original Pavillon consisted of a small entrance area, a bar.

Mammoth twosome twice the size of their daughter. We were living in a one-and-a-half-room apartment near Morningside Heights. Hulga had bought a sort of Rockefeller Center—type tree: it spread floor to ceiling and wall to wall—the damn thing was sucking the oxygen out of the air. And the fuss she made over it, the fortune she spent on this Woolworth’s shit! I happen to hate Christmas because, if you’ll pardon the tearjerker note, it always amounted to the year’s most depressing episode in my.

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