I had a decent review of “Other Voices, Other Rooms” by Truman Capote, but stupid Blogger lost it when I pressed Ctrl+z.
I think I talked about how The New York Times review was somewhat negative, and then I probably agreed with it. In any case, I remember reading this book and thinking that the richness of detail was overwhelming, and that it must be almost unbearable to be someone like Capote—someone so sensitive to one's surroundings, for so much of life to fall into your attention.
