A Ride Through Spain, by Truman Capote
sitting on a low wall in front of the small harbor of Portofino, 1950s
photo by Leonida Barezzi/Mondadori Portfolio via Getty Images
(The New Yorker)
no copyright infringement intended
The seats sagged like the jowls of a bulldog; windowpanes were out, and strips of adhesive held together those that were left ... The southern sky was as white and burning as a desert; in it was a single, tiny cloud.
A description of a ride by train through the South of Spain. Sometime by the end of forties/beginning of fifties. A train is a universe on the move. Here the move is an illusion: a universe where nothing happens. A dilapidated train with shabby passengers. Boredom is king. A warm day of summer, no winds, the weather is as lazy and useless as the universe of the train. Each element of this world starts looking normal, soon proving its weirdness. A piece of reality, floating now in surreal. After all, even the destination seems to become an illusion, it's a journey toward nowhere. Capote tells us the story with his usual matter of fact, observing anything without wonder. There is in his words all the time an implicit irony, well tempered by leniency.
It's actually much more than leniency. As bored and mediocre this universe is, it is way of being human. And here Capote proves his superb empathy for anything that's human: this train could be a poor thing going to nowhere, these people could be shabby slugging fellows with no horizon and no expectations, but the story about them is a gorgeous page. I stayed several days on writing these lines, as I was reading again and again the story, sipping its enchantment. A summery warm day, quiet and pleasant, caressing you with its invisible hand. It is a blessing.
A Ride Through Spain was published in The New Yorker in September 1950, then in Local Color, Capote's third volume (also published in the fall of 1950). Here is the text:
(Truman Capote)
Labels: Capote
posted by Pierre Radulescu at
5:11 PM
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