Truman Capote

[…] spaces horizontal and sparsely inhabited had always induced in him a depression accompanied by agoraphobic sensations. For the most part, his rages in the past have been directed at authority figures—father, brother, Army sergeant, state parole officer—and have led to violent assaultive behavior on several occasions. Now, upstairs, she changed into faded Levis and a green sweater, and fastened round her wrist her third most valued belonging, a gold watch […] You live until you die, and it doesn’t matter how you go; dead’s dead. So why carry on like a sackful of sick cats just because Herb Clutter got his throat cut? At a corner table two whiskery ranch hands were playing checkers.