Over the holiday weekend, I finally got around to reading a copy of In Cold Blood, the book by Truman Capote that’s been getting so much attention lately. I read most of it in the car (thankfully, I don’t get carsick!) while we we traveling to and from Fredericksburg, VA, where we went to see some friends – which included going to a live performance of Garrison Keillor’s A Prairie Home Companion (yes, it was awesome).

Anyway, Capote’s praise is well-deserved. As someone who doesn’t read true crime accounts or ‘investigative journalism’ I didn’t really expect to like the book, but Capote’s storytelling ability and exquisite use of language drew me in. He not only examines the psyches of the killers, what drove them to kill, but also turns his eye to the dynamics of small-town America and its inhabitants. My only complaint is that especially towards the end, he goes off onto tangents of other killers, which while giving greater insight into the minds of people who commit acts of seemingly senseless violence, did more to convolute and prolong the climactic finish.

Now I’m off to add Capote and In Cold Blood to my Netflix queue.