De Amerikaanse schrijver Truman Capote werd geboren op 30 september 1924 als Truman Streckfus Persons in New Orleans. Zie ook mijn blog van 30 september 2006.

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Uit: The Walls Are Cold

"... so Grant just said to them come on along to a wonderful party, and, well it was as easy as that. Really, I think it was just genius to pick them up, God only knows they might resurrect us from the grave." The girl who was talking tapped her cigarette ash on the Persian throw rug and looked apologetically at her hostess.

The hostess straightened her trim, black dress and pursed her lips nervously. She was very young and small and perfect. Her face was pale and framed with sleek black hair, and her lipstick was a trifle too dark. It was after two and she was tired and wished they would all go, but it was no small task to rid yourself of some thirty people, particularly when the majority were full of her father's scotch. The elevator man had been up twice to complain about the noise; so she gave him a highball, which is all he is after anyway. And now the sailors. .. oh, the hell with it.

"It's all right, Mildred, really. What are a few sailors more or less? God, I hope they don't break anything. Would you go back in the kitchen and see about ice, please? I'll see what I can do with your new-found friends."

"Really, darling, I don't think it's at all necessary. From what I understand, they acclimate themselves very easily."

The hostess went toward her sudden guests. They were knotted together in one corner of the drawing-room, just staring and not looking very much at home.

The best looking of the sextet turned his cap nervously and said, "We didn't know it was any kind of party like this, Miss. I mean, you don't want us, do you?"

"Of course you're welcome. What on earth would you be doing here if I didn't want you?"

The sailor was embarrassed.

"That girl, that Mildred and her friend just picked us up in some bar or other and we didn't have any idea we was comin' to no house like this."

"How ridiculous, how utterly ridiculous," the hostess said. "You are from the South, aren't you?"

He tucked his cap under his arm and looked more at ease. "I'm from Mississippi. Don't suppose you've ever been there, have you, Miss?"

She looked away toward the window and ran her tongue across her lips. She was tired of this, terribly tired of it. "Oh, yes," she lied. "A beautiful state."

He grinned. "You must be mixed up with some other place, Miss. There sure's not a lot to catch the eye in Mississippi, 'cept maybe around Natchez way."

"Of course, Natchez. I went to school with a girl from Natchez. Elizabeth Kimberly, do you know her?"

"No, can't say as I do."

Suddenly she realized that she and the sailor were alone; all of his mates had wandered over to the piano where Les was playing Porter. Mildred was right about the acclimation.

"Come on," she said, "I'll fix you a drink. They can shift for themselves. My name's Louise, so please don't call me Miss."