I was charmed by the first sentence: "I am always drawn back to places where I have lived, the houses and their neighborhoods," though I could not help mentally drawing a line through "where" with my imaginary (and compulsive and annoying) red pen, which tells you I don't agree with reviewers who have ruled every word of this story perfect. In a couple of places I found myself wondering if an editor actually read it. For example, when (big surprise) I happened upon an actual error, and not the allowed sort that can be attributed to narrative voice, poetic license, or character, not when the narrator is a writer. He writes: "I . . . felt as badly for Holly, every iota, as she could feel for herself." Should be: felt bad.
These things happen, nobody's perfect (not even Truman Capote), and this is still a lovely story worth reading on a rainy afternoon curled up with the cat. It's a fine example of a simple tale well told. But (as so many reviewers have claimed) a masterpiece??? I think it is called a masterpiece because of who wrote it, not because of the writing.
The writing does not approach the caliber of "In Cold Blood," which I do consider a masterpiece. Granted, they are entirely different works, but I was hoping for something as exceptionally crafted. Audrey Hepburn as Holly Golightly in the movie version strikes me as brilliant, but nothing about the written Holly Golightly strikes me likewise.
I have heard Capote hated the movie, and I wonder if maybe that's because Audrey's character bested his. I'm not sure I'd have felt as compelled by the story were I not picturing Audrey as Holly throughout.