"Let me begin by telling you that I was in love. An ordinary statement, to be sure, but not an ordinary fact, for so few of us learn that love is tenderness, and tenderness is not, as a fair proportion suspect, pity; and still fewer know that happiness in love is not the absolute focusing of all emotion in another: one has always to love a good many things which the beloved must come only to symbolize; the true beloveds of this world are in their lover's eyes lilac opening, ship lights, school bells, a landscape, remembered conversations, friends, a child's Sunday, lost voices, one's favorite suit, autumn and all seasons, memory, yes, it being the earth and water of existence, memory. A nostalgic list, but then, of course, where could one find a more nostalgic subject? When one is your age most subtlties go unobserved; even so, I imagine you think it incredible, looking at me as I am now, that I should ever have had the innocence to feel such love; nevertheless, when I was twenty-three..." (Capote, 1948, pp. 141-142)
From the preface:
[T]he real progenitor was my difficult, subterranean self. The result was both a revelation and an escape: the book set me free, and, as in its prophetic final sentence, I stood there and looked beck at the boy I had left behind (Capote, 1948, p. x).
Curiously, for New Orleans is not that sizeable a town, I never met a soul I knew. Except, by accident, my father. Which was ironic, considering that though I was unaware of it at the time, the central theme of Other Voices, Other Rooms was my search for the existence of this essentially imaginary person (Capote, 1948. p. xv).