I love Breakfast At Tiffany’s – the BOOK way-way more than the movie. What sign do you think Holly Golightly is?
Here is a blurb & extract to help, if you haven’t read the book. I’m thinking definitely a Mutable…Gemini? Truman Capote was Libra and he was mad-keen for the Gemini Marilyn Monroe to play Holly. And the “it’s a cage” wistfulness – gotta be Gem, Sagg or Pisces…Yes?
“It’s New York in the 1940s, where the martinis flow from cocktail-hour to breakfast at Tiffany’s. And nice girls don’t, except, of course, Holly Golightly. Pursued by Mafia gangsters and playboy millionaires, Holly is a fragile eyeful of tawny hair and turned-up nose, a heart-breaker, a perplexer, a traveller, a tease. She is irrepressibly ‘top banana in the shock department’, and one of the shining flowers of American fiction.”
“…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 her 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.’…”
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