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“The good die cold, the wicked in flames: the winds of hell are blue with the sweet ether of fever-flowers, horned snake-tongued children dance on lawns that are the surface of the sun, all loot from thievery tied to their tails like cat-cans, tokens of a life in crime.” – Truman Capote, Other Voices, Other Rooms

Published inLit & CritTruman Capote

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