Other Voices. Other Rooms

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Other Voices, Other Rooms
by Truman Capote|
Iulia Covrig|
Degree in English Studies
Group: 2ºA
Professor: Maya García de Vinuesa|

INDEX:
1. Other Voices, Other Rooms. Chapter 8………………………………….2 2. Otras Voces, Otros Ámbitos. Capitulo 8………………………………….5 3. Analysis…………………………………………………………8 4. Bibliography…………………………………………………….10

Other Voices, Other Rooms. Chapter 8
Truman Capote

Randolph dipped his brush into a little water-filled vinegar jar, and tendrils of purple spread like some fast-growing vine. “Don’t smile, my dear,” he said. “I am not a photographer. On the other hand, I could scarcely be called an artist; not, that is, if you define artist as one who sees, takes and purely transmits: always for me there is the problem of distortion, and I never paint so much what I see as what I think: for example, some years ago, this was in Berlin, I drew a boy, not much older than yourself, and yet in my picture he looked more aged than Jesus Fever, and whereas in reality his eyes were childhood blue, the eyes I saw were bleary and lost. And what I saw was indeed the truth, for little Kurt, that was his name, turned out to be a perfect horror, and tried twice to murder me…exhibiting both times, I must say, admirable ingenuity. Poor child, I wonder whatever became of him…or, for that matter, me. Now that is a most interesting question: whatever became of me?” As if to punctuate his sentence he kept, all the while he talked, thrusting the brush inside the jar, and the water, continually darkening, had at its center, like a hidden flower, a rope of red. “Very well, sit back, we’ll relax a minute now.” Sighing, Joel glanced about him. It was the first time he’d been in Randolph’s room; after two hours, he still could not quite take it in, for it was so unlike anything he’d ever known before: faded gold and tarnished silk reflecting in ornate mirrors, it all made him feel as though he’d eaten too much candy. Large as the room was, the barren space in it amounted to no more than one foot; carved tables, velvet chairs, candelabras, a Ger man music box, books and paintings seemed to spill into each other, as if the objects in a flood had floated through the windows and skunk here. Behind his liver-shaped desk unframed foreign postcards crusted the walls; six of these, a series from Japan, were for Joel an education, even though to some extent he knew already the significance of what they depicted. Like a museum exhibit, there was spread out on a long, black, tremendously heavy table a display consisting in part of antique dolls, some with missing arms, legs, some without heads, other whose bead-eyes stared glass-blank though their innards, straw and sawdust, showed through open wounds; all however, were costumed, and exquisitely, in a variety of velvet, lace, linen. Now set in the center of this table was a little photograph in a silver frame so elaborate as to be absurd; it was a cheap photograph, obviously taken at a carnival or amusement park, for the persons concerned, three men and a girl, were posed against a humorous backdrop of cross-eyed baboons and leering kangaroos; though he was thinner in this scene and more handsome, Joel, without much effort, recognized Randolph, and another of the men looked similar too… was it his father? Certainly the face was only mildly reminiscent of the man across the hall. The third man, taller than his companions, cut an amazing figure; he was powerfully made and, even in so faded a print, very dark, almost Negroid; his eyes, narrow and sly and black glittered beneath brow this as mustaches, and his lips, fuller than a woman’s were caught in a cocky smile which intensified the dashing rather vaudeville effect on a straw hat he wore, a cane he carried. He had his arm around the girl, and she, an anemic faunlike creature, was gazing up at him, with the completest adoration. “Oh, yes,” said Randolph, stretching his legs, lighting a...
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