MARILYN : Everything’s ruined.
TC: I’ll take you home.
MARILYN : Give me a minute. I’ll be okay.
(Thus we traveled on to South Street, and indeed the sight of a ferry moored there, with the Brooklyn skyline across the water and careening, cavorting seagulls white against a marine horizon streaked with thin fleecy clouds fragile as lace— this tableau soon soothed her soul.
MARILYN : Remember, I said if anybody ever asked you what I was like, what Marilyn Monroe was really like—well, how would you answer them? (Her tone was teaseful, mocking, yet earnest, too: she wanted an honest reply) I bet you’d tell them I was a slob. A banana split.
TC: Of course. But I’d also say…
(The light was leaving. She seemed to fade with it, blend with the sky and clouds, recede beyond them. I wanted to lift my voice louder than the seagulls’ cries and call her back: Marilyn! Marilyn, why did everything have to turn out the way it did? Why does life have to be so fucking rotten?)
TC: I’d say…
MARILYN: I can’t hear you.
TC: I’d say you are a beautiful child.
[Truman Capote, Music for Chameleons]