Holly Golightly had been a tenant in the old brownstone she'd occupied the apartment below mine. It never occurred to me in those days to write about Holly Golightly, and probably it would not now except for a conversation I had with Joe Bell that set the whole memory of her in motion again. Even so, my spirits heightened whenever I felt in my pocket the key to this apartment with all its gloom, it still was a place of my own, the first, and my books were there, and jars of pencils to sharpen, everything I needed, so I felt, to become the writer I wanted to be. The single window looked out on a fire escape. Everywhere, in the bathroom too, there were prints of Roman ruins freckled brown with age. The walls were stucco, and a color rather like tobacco-spit. It was one room crowded with attic furniture, a sofa and fat chairs upholstered in that itchy, particular red velvet that one associates with hot days on a tram.
For instance, there is a brownstone in the East Seventies where, during the early years of the war, I had my first New York apartment. I am always drawn back to places where I have lived, the houses and their neighborhoods.
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