Other Voices, Other Rooms

Other Voices, Other Rooms

3.9 27
by Truman Capote

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Truman Capote’s first novel is a story of almost supernatural intensity and inventiveness, an audacious foray into the mind of a sensitive boy as he seeks out the grown-up enigmas of love and death in the ghostly landscape of the deep South.
At the age of twelve, Joel Knox is summoned to meet the father who abandoned him at birth. But when Joel arrives at the…  See more details below


Truman Capote’s first novel is a story of almost supernatural intensity and inventiveness, an audacious foray into the mind of a sensitive boy as he seeks out the grown-up enigmas of love and death in the ghostly landscape of the deep South.
At the age of twelve, Joel Knox is summoned to meet the father who abandoned him at birth. But when Joel arrives at the decaying mansion in Skully’s Landing, his father is nowhere in sight. What he finds instead is a sullen stepmother who delights in killing birds; an uncle with the face—and heart—of a debauched child; and a fearsome little girl named Idabel who may offer him the closest thing he has ever known to love.

Editorial Reviews

From the Publisher
 “Intense, brilliant . . . .  Capote has an astonishing command . . . a magic all his own.” —The Atlantic

“Truman Capote is the most perfect writer of my generation.” —Norman Mailer

“Dazzling.” —Chicago Tribune

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Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group
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Vintage International
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Now a traveler must make his way to Noon City by the best means he can, for there are no buses or trains heading in that direction, though six days a week a truck from the Chuberry Turpentine Company collects mail and supplies in the next-door town of Paradise Chapel: occasionally a person bound for Noon City can catch a ride with the driver of the truck, Sam Radclif. It’s a rough trip no matter how you come, for these washboard roads will loosen up even brandnew cars pretty fast; and hitchhikers always find the going bad. Also, this is lonesome country; and here in the swamplike hollows where tiger lilies bloom the size of a man’s head, there are luminous green logs that shine under the dark marsh water like drowned corpses; often the only movement on the landscape is winter smoke winding out the chimney of some sorry-looking farmhouse, or a wing-stiffened bird, silent and arrow-eyed, circling over the black deserted pinewoods.

Two roads pass over the hinterlands into Noon City; one from the north, another from the south; the latter, known as the Paradise Chapel Highway, is the better of the pair, though both are much the same: desolate miles of swamp and field and forest stretch along either route, unbroken except for scattered signs advertising Red Dot 5¢ Cigars, Dr. Pepper, NEHI, Grove’s Chill Tonic, and 666. Wooden bridges spanning brackish creeks named for long-gone Indian tribes rumble like far-off thunder under a passing wheel; herds of hogs and cows roam the roads at will; now and then a farm-family pauses from work to wave as an auto whizzes by, and watch sadly till it disappears in red dust.

One sizzling day in early June the Turpentine Company’s driver, Sam Radclif, a big balding six-footer with a rough, manly face, was gulping a beer at the Morning Star Café in Paradise Chapel when the proprietor came over with his arm around this stranger-boy.

“Hiya, Sam,” said the proprietor, a fellow called Sydney Katz. “Got a kid here that’d be obliged if you could give him a ride to Noon City. Been trying to get there since yesterday. Think you can help?”

Radclif eyed the boy over the rim of his beer glass, not caring much for the looks of him. He had his notions of what a “real” boy should look like, and this kid somehow offended them. He was too pretty, too delicate and fair-skinned; each of his features was shaped with a sensitive accuracy, and a girlish tenderness softened his eyes, which were brown and very large. His brown hair, cut short, was streaked with pure yellow strands. A kind of tired, imploring expression masked his thin face, and there was an unyouthful sag about his shoulders. He wore long, wrinkled white linen breeches, a limp blue shirt, the collar of which was open at the throat, and rather scuffed tan shoes.

Wiping a mustache of foam off his upper lips, Radclif said: “What’s you name, son?”

“Joel. Jo-el Har-ri-son Knox.” He separated the syllables explicitly, as though he thought the driver deaf, but his voice was uncommonly soft.

“That so?” drawled Radclif, placing his dry beer glass on the counter. “A mighty fancy name, Mister Knox.”

The boy blushed and turned to the proprietor, who promptly intervened: “This is a fine boy, Sam. Smart as a whip. Knows words you and me never heard of.”

Radclif was annoyed. “Here, Katz,” he ordered, “fillerup.” After the proprietor trundled away to fetch a second beer, Sam said kindly, “Didn’t mean to tease you, son. Where bouts you from?”

“New Orleans,” he said. “I left there Thursday and got here Friday . . . and that was as far as I could go; no one come to meet me.”

“Oh, yeah,” said Radclif. “Visiting folks in Noon City?”

The boy nodded. “My father. I’m going to live with him.”

Radclif raised his eyes ceilingward, mumbled “Knox” several times, then shook his head in a baffled manner. “Nope, don’t think I know anybody by that name. Sure you’re in the right place?”

“Oh, yes,” said the boy without alarm. “Ask Mister Katz, he’s heard about my father, and I showed him the letters and . . . wait.” He hurried back among the tables of the gloomy café, and returned toting a huge tin suitcase that, judging by his grimace, was extremely heavy. The suitcase was colorful with faded souvenir stickers from remote parts of the globe: Paris, Cairo, Venice, Vienna, Naples, Hamburg, Bombay, and so forth. It was an odd thing to see on a hot day in a town the size of Paradise Chapel.

“You been all them places?” asked Radclif.

“No-o-o,” said the boy, struggling to undo a worn-out leather strap which held the suitcase together. “It belonged to my grandfather; that was Major Knox: you’ve read about him in history books, I guess. He was a prominent figure in the Civil War. Anyway, this is the valise he used on his wedding trip around the world.”

“Round the world, eh?” said Radclif, impressed. “Musta been a mighty rich man.”

“Well, that was a long time ago.” He rummaged through his neatly packed possessions till he found a slim package of letters. “Here it is,” he said, selecting one in a watergreen envelope.

Radclif fingered the letter a moment before opening it; but presently, with clumsy care, he extracted a green sheet of tissue-like paper and, moving his lips, read:

Edw. R. Sansom, Esq. Skully’s Landing May 18, 19—

My dear Ellen Kendall,

I am in your debt for answering my letter so quickly; indeed, by return post. Yes, hearing from me after twelve years must have seemed strange, but I can assure you sufficient reason prompted this long silence. However, reading in the Times-Picayune, to the Sunday issue of which we subscribe, of my late wife’s passing, may God the Almighty rest her gentle soul, I at once reasoned the honorable thing could only be to again assume my paternal duties, forsaken, lo, these many years. Both the present Mrs Sansom and myself are happy (nay, overjoyed!) to learn you are willing to concede our desire, though, as you remark, your heart will break in doing so. Ah, how well I sympathize with the sorrow such a sacrifice may bring, having experienced similar emotions when, after that final dreadful affair, I was forced to take leave of my only child, whom I treasured, while he was still no more than an infant. But that is all of the lost past. Rest assured, good lady, we here at the Landing have a beautiful home, healthful food, and a cultured atmosphere with which to provide my son.

As to the journey: we are anxious Joel reach here no later than June First. Now when he leaves New Orleans he should travel via train to Biloxi, at which point he must disembark and purchase a bus ticket for Paradise Chapel, a town some twenty miles south of Noon City. We have at present no mechanical vehicle; therefore, I suggest he remain overnight in P.C. where rooms are let above the Morning Star Café, until appropriate arrangements can be made. Enclosed please find a cheque covering such expenses as all this may incur.

Yrs. Respct. Edw. R. Sansom

The proprietor arrived with the beer just as Radclif, frowning puzzledly, sighed and tucked the paper back in its envelope. There were two things about this letter that bothered him; first of all, the handwriting: penned in ink the rusty color of dried blood, it was a maze of curlicues and dainty i’s dotted with daintier o’s. What the hell kind of a man would write like that? And secondly: “If your Pa’s named Sansom, how come you call yourself Knox?”

The boy stared at the floor embarrassedly. “Well,” he said, and shot Radclif a swift, accusing look, as if the driver was robbing him of something, “they were divorced, and mother always called me Joel Knox.”

“Aw, say, son,” said Radclif, “you oughtn’t to have let her done that! Remember, your Pa’s your Pa no matter what.”

The proprietor avoided a yearning glance for help which the boy now cast in his direction by having wandered off to attend another customer. “But I’ve never seen him,” said Joel, dropping the letters into his suitcase and buckling up the strap. “Do you know where this place is? Skully’s Landing?”

“The Landing?” Radclif said. “Sure, sure I know all about it.” He took a deep swallow of beer, let forth a mighty belch, and grinned. “Yessir, if I was your Pa I’d take down your britches and muss you up a bit.” Then, draining the glass, he slapped a half-dollar on the counter, and stood meditatively scratching his hairy chin till a wall clock sounded the hour four: “O.K., son, let’s shove,” he said, starting briskly towards the door.

After a moment’s hesitation the boy lifted his suitcase and followed.

“Come see us again,” called the proprietor automatically.

From the Hardcover edition.

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Norman Mailer
Truman Capote is the most perfect writer of my generation.

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Other Voices, Other Rooms 4 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 27 reviews.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Only Capote can write in such a way that I feel I have left my chair and joined the character and his world. While reading this I reached a passage that stirred an emotion that I have only felt once before and that was while reading To Kill a Mockingbird. l wonder what really should determine who a work belongs to. Is it whose story it is or is it who tells the story.
Jose J. Ortiz More than 1 year ago
Capote was a gifted and brilliant writer. His imagery is out of this world; it grabs you and doesn't let go until it drowns you with vivid and colorful impressions of the world that surrounds you. By all means, treat yourself to this masterpiece. Books like this only bloom once in a century.
hms More than 1 year ago
Just read it, it's amazing.
Sarah_Geller More than 1 year ago
This is one of my all time favorite books. I read it in high school, and again recently, and it was even better than I remembered.
carlosmock More than 1 year ago
Other Voices, Other Rooms by Truman Capote Joel Harrison Knox is a 13 y/o boy who lived in New Orleans, LA. Surrounded by a cast of characters like Mr. Mystery - an artist magician who played in vaudeville houses in New Orleans, Annie Rose Kupperman - another artist, and family - his mother, his aunt and friends. All this comes to an end after Joel's mother dies and his estranged father, Edw. R. Sanford, Esq sends a letter and money requesting Joel to come live at Skully's Landing, somewhere near Noon City. Mr. Sansom has married Amy Skully and the letter says she is also happy to have Joel live with them. It becomes clear early enough that there is something wrong. When Joel arrives to Noon City, there is no one waiting for him. After catching a ride to Skully's Landing, he is unable to see his father. His step mother, Amy, keeps telling Joel it's not time yet. Joel has to face life in a house without electricity or plumbing, filled with characters: Miss Amy, and his clever and cousin Randolph, their black "maid" Missouri (Zoo) Fever, and Zoo's ancient grandfather Jesus Fever. Joel's father is in the house too, but not in the form he anticipated. He's an invalid that must be taken care of 24/7. Little Sunshine, a hermit, and two local girls, Twin sisters Florabel and the wild tomboy Idabel Thompkins, round out the players and are Joel's allies in a threatening world of perversity, mental instability, and sexual ambiguity. The story is filled with ghosts, dreams and a series of comical events; at times it really feels like Capote is putting on a human freak show for the thrill-seeking reader. He leads us through a world of decaying old buildings and broken spirits. But Capote always respects the essential humanity of his troubled characters. Narrated from the third person universal point of view, the story is told in a beautifully lyric style. The main theme is sexuality, love, and gender identity. Capote establishes this theme early on in his description of the main character, Joel, who is described as not looking like a "'real' boy": "He was too pretty, too delicate and fair-skinned." Afterwards we find out that cousin Randolph was in love with Pepe Alvarez. "The brain may take the advice. but not the heart, and love, having no geography, knows no boundaries...any love is natural and beautiful that lies within a person's nature; only hypocrites would hold a man responsible for what he loves..." Raymond om pages 118-9. Time is another theme. Joel states: "Amy, Randolph, his father, they were all outside of time, all circling the present like spirits: was this why they seemed to him like a dream?" And Randolph adds: "Have you never heard what wise men say: all of the future exists in the past." Loneliness is a another theme. Randolph says to Joel: "But we are alone, darling child, terribly, isolated each from the other." p119 Physical beauty and identity is depicted as a reflection in mirrors: "They can romanticize us so, mirrors, and that is their secret: what a subtle torture it would be to destroy all the mirrors in the world: where then could we look for reassurance of our identities?" Randolph on page 113. A great read. Capote delivers a novel that will forever live with the reader as a voice in the rooms of the soul. It is an exquisitely sad voice but not one that should ever be silenced.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Found myself emerged in the story...great visual writing.
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Guest More than 1 year ago
Joel Knox is the main character in this riveting and compelling novel of the South. It¿s probably the most ¿true¿ of all of Capote¿s works¿based mostly on his life as a child in Alabama. This is, probably, one of the most perfect books, second only to IN COLD BLOOD which IS the most perfect. Some have likened OTHER VOICES to McCuller¿s THE HEART IS A LONELY HUNTER, but I don¿t take to that comparison. This is much more Gothic and more completely formed than HUNTER. Published in January 1948 and Capote's second novel (but the first to reach print), this still engaging work was a sensation and best seller that year and has been in print ever since. Like Capote himself, it's one of a kind. A misfit young boy, Joel Knox, the product of a broken home (as was Capote), travels from New Orleans to the backwater town of Noon City, Mississippi in search of his unknown father. After twelve years of separation, his father has supposedly written to Joel's loving aunt in New Orleans and wants Joel back. But Joel, longing for his father's love, finds himself in the decaying hothouse home of his stepmother, Miss Amy, and his clever and perverse cousin Randolph, their black 'maid' Zoo, and Zoo's ancient father Jesus Fever. Joel's father is in the house too, but not in the form he anticipated. Two local girls, Florabel and the wild tomboy Idabel, round out the players and are Joel's allies in a threatening world of perversity, mental instability, and sexual ambiguity. Even though he was just 23 when he finished this work, Capote displays tremendous inventiveness, narrative talent, and over-the-top imagery. A coming-of-age story, this work gushes southern atmosphere and contains, in Capote's own words, 'a certain anguished, pleading intensity like the message stuffed in a bottle and thrown into the sea.' It also is semi-autobiographical, 'an attempt to exorcise demons,' although Capote claimed many years later that he was unconscious of this when he wrote it. On another level, this work is also about the elusive search for the father, and the discovery that one is all alone, seeking to feel that 'everything is going to be all right.' As a post-war novel, OTHER VOICES, OTHER ROOMS found an audience longing for the same thing, seeking the safety of a benevolent father in a perverse world, and wanting to grow up and find itself. The only other novel that I enjoyed this much (though it is totally different, yet at the same time Capote-like) was Jackson McCrae¿s KATZENJAMMER (Soon to be a major motion picture) with its twists and turns.
Guest More than 1 year ago
If you only know Capote through his work in 'In Cold Blood,' then you've experienced only a part of his potential. Capote's first published novel (another unfinished prior novel was put aside and eventually discarded by him), reflects his own emotional journeys through the South, looking for comfort and place. 'Other Voices, Other Rooms' is cast with eccentric characters, atmospheric settings and an overall ethereal quality. At times it reads like a poem viewed through a hazy mist. The story is murky at times and the ending somewhat inconclusive. But readers who are up for a challenge and want to see another side of Capote's talent are bound to find rewarding and intriguing moments in this relatively short novel.