The Walls Are Cold

Yesterday was the 33 year anniversary of Truman Capote’s death. He was 59 when he passed.

I fell in love with Truman while I was in college. His name was mentioned in a Southern Literature course I took one year, but we did not read any of his work. Later, when I started working in a bookstore, I came across a copy of George Plimpton’s book about Truman and couldn’t put it down.

I was young and impressionable and Truman immediately became a personal hero and muse to me. I felt a connection to him.

I fully admit I have not read all of his work to date.

Isn’t it peculiar that we can have heroes simply for the reason that we admire who they are? I’ve spent so much of my life just loving who Truman was and admiring the life he led, and relating to it; but haven’t spent time absorbing all of his work. Nor have I felt the necessity to do that.

Even last night, I opened his collection of short stories on my Kindle and couldn’t bring myself to even read just one story. I will admit I was tired, but they also just didn’t interest me. Not then.

Some may ask how can you love someone so much just based on what you know about them, especially an artist?  How can you love them without having studied and read and observed their entire body of art?

I don’t think there has to be an explanation.

We can love and admire whoever we choose, and look up to them for whatever reason. Can’t we?

Sometimes our heroes need no explanation. The reasons they’ve earned our admiration are personal. I have a lot of heroes just like that.

Over the next few days, I’m going to share a 6 part essay I wrote a few years back about some of my heroes, including Truman. I’ve shared this essay on another blogging site, but not here on my own. It’s time to put it here. Enjoy.

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