Truman Capote

with all its gloom, it still was a place of my own

You can love somebody without it being like that. You keep them a stranger, a stranger who's a friend.

"The next time a girl wants a little powder-room change," she called, not teasing at all, "take my advice, darling: don't give her twenty-cents!"

so much my idea of comfort that I couldn't understand a sense of unease that multiplied until I could hear my heart beating

"I don't. I'll never get used to anything. Anybody that does, they might as well be dead."

Of course I like dykes themselves. They don't scare me a bit. But stories about dykes bore the bejesus out of me.

Of course people couldn't help but think I must be a bit of a dyke myself. And of course I am. Everyone is: a bit.

A disquieting loneliness came into my life, but it induced no hunger for friends of longer acquaintance: they seemed now like a salt-free, sugarless diet.

I want to still be me when I wake up one fine morning and have breakfast at Tiffany's.

Yearning. Not stupid. He wants awfully to be on the inside staring out: anybody with their nose pressed against a glass is liable to look stupid.