For the sake of A Century of Books, I must record that I have read Truman Capote's In Cold Blood (1966) - but I have no desire to write about it. I hated reading it. The writing was good. But it is a horrible book, about a horrible murder committed by horrible people. People will, I daresay, suggest that I am shying away from 'real life', but unpleasant actions are no more real than pleasant ones. The usual, indeed, is rather more real than unusual. There is a greater amount of reality in the Provincial Lady books than within the pages of In Cold Blood. I cannot understand why anybody wants to read crime books, let alone true crime books: one half of the world does not understand the pleasures of the other. Reading In Cold Blood could never be a pleasure for me, and the amount of displeasure it caused me wholly obscured any admiration I should feel towards Capote for his writing ability or his experimentation with genre. I wish I had never read it.