Other Voices, Other Rooms, Truman Capote

The widely heralded bestseller that brought TRUMAN CAPOTE world acclaim.

A mouldering mansion by the edge of a swamp. . .
A ghostly face at a curtained window. . .
A lonely boy seeking the answer to a long-buried secret. . .

He’d come to stay with a father he had never seen, a father who had deserted him at birth.
Everyone Joel Knox met was mysteriously close-mouthed about the place at Skully’s Landing.
But none were more tight-lipped than the people who bid him welcome to the dismal run-down mansion
that was to be his home. None more evasive than his newfound stepmother when Joel asked to see the
man who had sent for him after so many silent years.
A tremendously engrossing novel of the modern South,Other Voices, Other Rooms is a
masterful evocation of a time, a place and a mood. . . a book which is as terrifying as it is compelling.

«Not only a work of unusual beauty, but a work of unusual intelligence. . . One of the most accomplished
of American novelists.» — New York Herald Tribune

FOR NEWTON ARVIN

The heart is deceitful
above all things, and
desperately wicked.
Who can know it?
Jeremiah17:9

Other Voices, Other Rooms, Truman Capote

Part One

1

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 brand new 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 lip, Radclif said: «What’s your 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 theTimes-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.

The truck was