I want to still be me when I wake up one fine morning and have breakfast at Tiffany´s.
Interpretation
The quote expresses a desire for authenticity and the simple pleasures that come with it.
Truman Capote's quote reflects a longing to maintain one's true self amidst the glamour and luxury symbolized by 'breakfast at Tiffany's'. It suggests that no matter the external circumstances or societal expectations, the essence of who we are should remain intact, highlighting the importance of self-identity and contentment in our daily lives.
In practice
This quote can inspire individuals during a motivational speech about self-acceptance.
All writing, all art, is an act of faith. If one tries to contribute to human understanding, how can that be called decadent? It's like saying a declaration of love is an act of decadence. Any work of art, provide it springs from a sincere motivation to further understanding between people, is an act of faith and therefore is an act of love.
No one will ever know what 'In Cold Blood' took out of me. It scraped me right down to the marrow of my bones. It nearly killed me. I think, in a way, it did kill me.
Hot weather opens the skull of a city, exposing its white brain, and its heart of nerves, which sizzle like the wires inside a lightbulb. And there exudes a sour extra-human smell that makes the very stone seem flesh-alive, webbed and pulsing.
I don't want to own anything until I find a place where me and things go together.
The quietness of his tone italicized the malice of his reply.
My yardstick is how somebody treats me.
I take so little interest in my daily life, that I hardly remember to eat and drink.
Modern man is frantically trying to earn enough to buy things he's too busy to enjoy.
I don't know if I found soccer or if soccer found me. Especially because when I was younger, I was doing it, in a lot of ways, because I wanted the attention of my mom and dad.
Life is like a trumpet - if you don't put anything into it, you don't get anything out of it.
Yes, I am sad, sad as a circus-lioness, sad as an eagle without wings, sad as a violin with only one string and that one broken, sad as a woman who is growing old. Sad, sad, sad.
Alone, she took hot baths and sat exhausted in the steaming water, wondering at her perpetual exhaustion. All that winter she noticed the limp, languid weight of her arms, her veins bulging slightly with the pressure of her extreme weariness ... one day in January she drew a razor blade lightly across the inside of her arm, near the elbow, to see what would happen.
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