Would anyone mind having a look at this Capote one? It's the VATE 2012 paper although I can't find my copy of the passages =/
Capote’s meticulous construction of a world seemingly blessed by fortune asks us to question whether this image of ‘content existence’ is any more than a surface affectation. That the quiet prosperity of Holcomb is a product of persistent and honest work Capote accepts, but the description of ‘plentiful natural gas resources’ implies that a seemingly providential gift has fallen into the hands of only some of the ‘very varied stock’ that inhabit the village. This combination of work and fortune, then, breeds an undercurrent of jealousy and even mistrust towards those in the community who have ‘done so well’, thoughts which remain unvoiced while ‘the waters of the river’ continue to pass unnoticed. When ‘foreign noises’ do arrive and shatter the security of ‘ordinary life’, the air of suspicion finds expression in the ‘glares’ of old neighbours. Capote is questioning the image of ‘sleeping Holcomb’, suggesting that although the townspeople were ‘sufficiently unfearful of each other to seldom lock their doors’ this apparent social harmony is essentially a construction, a papering-over of ‘drama’ and ‘mistrust’ that will be shattered when the village is roused from its sleep. The young Herb Clutter’s return to ‘doors locked’ and the ‘house dark’ serves to allegorically reveal, albeit passingly, that the image of content harmony is at its heart a fabrication.
This exposition of contrasting spheres of ‘comfort’ and ‘anguish’ mirror broader patterns of disharmony in America, serving to foreshadow the inevitable intersection that will be played out with Holcomb as the stage. The ‘yellow trains streaking down the tracks’ will not ignore the town forever, and when the dormant ‘fires of mistrust’ are re-ignited they cannot be extinguished. The description of these ‘fires of mistrust’ summons a powerful image of a primed explosive, needing only the slightest disturbance to explode and destroy the façade-world of ‘school socials and choir practices.’ The image Holcomb constructs for itself, Capote suggests, is an anachronism, an expression of devotion to a picture of a society which no longer exists, if it even ever did.
The ‘foreign sounds’ that finally do ‘impinge’ on the village are realised in Smith and Hickock, drawn as the antithesis to the quiet stasis of Holcomb. The description of Perry’s ‘serious literature’ – in reality pulp romances – reveals the jealousy that the apparent blessing of this vision of America arouses in those excluded. What Capote regards as truly ‘serious literature’ belongs to the world of ‘4-H clubs’ and ‘white, solid and spacious houses’, not Perry’s realm of poverty and neglect. Perry longs to participate in everything Holcomb represents, but his attempts are nothing more than transparent pretentions and delusions of importance. He ‘pretends to have written’ the poem he gives Cookie, poetry itself a symbol of the world he will never be a part of.
Capote refuses Perry this integration, and consequentially his longings to be party to all the things ‘a man ought to have’ find expression in his overwhelming narcissism and, when challenged, his fits of rage. This is partly due to his upbringing, expressed in a father who insists Perry can do no wrong while himself providing an abject example of familial disfunction. The poem, then, reflects Perry’s self-conscious view of himself as a different and perhaps superior member of a ‘race of men that can’t fit in’, who of course would ‘go far’ and ‘climb the mountain’s crest’ if not for an inability ‘to rest’. Perry’s grandiose view of his own talents and importance only betrays his craving for admiration, expressed in Cookie having ‘liked him, pitied him, babied him’, as if, as Capote suggests, he is still a child unable to ‘stay still’.
In this sense, we arrive to ‘the odour of spoiling apples’, a ‘rusting rake’ and a ‘parched and shabby lawn.’ Aside from establishing a mood of decay, these descriptions suggest that once the outside world has arrived in Holcomb its presence will not be erased. The ambulances ‘had driven across the grass straight to the front door’, as if oblivious to the destruction their passage created, perhaps a reference to the unintended consequences of the murders. And now ‘the tyre tracks were still visible’ for all to see – the intersection of these two Americas is permanent, and it occurs with tragic and lasting consequences for both.