Breakfast At Tiffany's

Meet Holly Golightly - a true original, a free-spirited, lop-sided romantic who owns a fiery red cat as wild and restless as she is. With her tousled blond hair and upturned nose, dark glasses and chic black dresses, she is top notch in the style department and a sensation wherever she goes. Her brownstone apartment vibrates with martini-soaked parties as she plays hostess to millionaires and gangsters alike. Yet Holly never loses sight of her ultimate goal - to find a real life place like Tiffany's that makes her feel at home. This edition also contains three stories: 'House of Flowers', 'A Diamond Guitar' and 'A Christmas Memory'. 'Breakfast at Tiffany's is a valentine of love, fashioned by way of reminiscences to one Holly Golightly. Capote makes unique reading' The New York Times Book Review This is a gorgeous edition of Capote's classic novella, with a still of Audrey Hepburn from the film of Breakfast at Tiffany's glittering on its beguiling silver cover' The Irish Times That Monday in October 1943. A beautiful day with the buoyancy of a bird. To start, we had Manhattans at Joe Bell's; and, when he heard of my good luck, champagne cocktails on the house. Later, we wandered towards Fifth Avenue, where there was a parade. The flats in the wind, the thump of military bands and military feet, seemed to have nothing to do with war, but to be, rather, a fanfare arranged in my personal honour. We ate lunch at the cafeteria in the park. Afterwards, avoiding the zoo (Holly said she couldn't bear to see anything in a cage), we giggled, ran, sang along the paths towards the old wooden boathouse, now gone. Leaves floated on the lake; on the shore, a park-man was fanning a bonfire of them, and the smoke, rising like Indian signals was the only smudge on the quivering air. Aprils have never meant much to me, autumns seem that season of beginning, spring; which is how I felt sitting with Holly on the railings of the boathouse porch. I thought of the future, and spoke of the past. Because Holly wanted to know about my childhood. She talked of her own, too; but it was elusive, nameless, placeless, an impressionistic recital, though the impression received was contrary to what one expected, for she gave an almost voluptuous account of swimming and summer, Christmas trees, pretty cousins, and parties: in short, happy in a way that she was not, and never, certainly, the background of a child who had run away. Or, I asked, wasn't it true that she'd been out on her own since she was fourteen? She rubbed he nose. 'That's true. The other isn't. But really, darling, you made such a tragedy out of your childhood I didn't feel I should compete.' She hopped off the railing. 'Anyway, it reminds me: I ought to send Fred some peanut butter.' The rest of the afternoon we were east and west worming out of reluctant grocers cans of peanut butter, a wartime scarcity; dark came before we'd rounded up a half-dozen jars, the last at a delicatessen on Third Avenue. It was near the antique shop with the palace of a bird cage in its window, so I took her there to see it, and she enjoyed the point, its fantasy: 'But still, it's a cage.'