In many ways, Truman Capote’s Breakfast at Tiffany’s is a story about the human desire for companionship and love. Although Holly Golightly is an independent young woman who makes her own way in the world and refuses to let others interfere with her individuality, she also appreciates the value of human connection. This is made obvious by the fact that she actively seeks out the unnamed narrator, endearing herself to him and establishing a kinship with him—a kinship so strong that she calls him by her beloved brother’s name, Fred. What’s most interesting about their relationship is that it is completely platonic while also bearing certain romantic qualities, though most readers interpret the narrator as a stand-in for Capote himself, implying that he’s gay, since Capote was gay himself. In keeping with this, the narrator never makes any sexual advances or tries to turn his and Holly’s bond into a romantic one, though he does invest himself in her life in a similar way that a lover might. Holly, for her part, seems to delight in the fact that she has found a companion willing to care for her without any ulterior motives, and she devotes herself to the narrator by insisting upon helping him grow as a writer. What emerges, then, is a relational bond predicated on the simple desire to be cared for and supported by another person. By putting this dynamic on display, Capote shows readers that platonic love can be just as deep and emotionally resonant as romantic love.
At first, it is somewhat difficult to gauge the nature of Holly and the narrator’s relationship. This is largely because, despite the fact that he’s the one telling the story, readers know very little about the narrator. Instead of focusing on himself, he spends his time thinking about Holly, making it clear that he’s quite drawn to her. Of course, this might lead readers to think that the narrator is in love with Holly, and though this is undoubtedly the case in a certain sense, it comes to seem increasingly unlikely that his feelings for her are romantic. After all, the relationship they develop is one of companionship, ease, and emotional support, not one of romantic attraction. Several times throughout the novella, the narrator sees Holly in various states of undress, and neither of them make a big deal out of these moments—most likely because they’re both aware that the narrator isn’t sexually attracted to women. If he were, it’s probable that he would want to turn his and Holly’s relationship into a romantic affair. Instead of doing this, though, he takes pleasure in simply passing the time with her, ultimately indicating that what he wants more than anything is to enjoy her company.
Even if Holly and the narrator aren’t in a romantic relationship, though, their connection is emotionally rich. This is especially apparent when the narrator momentarily thinks Holly has finally gotten engaged to Rusty Trawler, a rich gay man with whom she spends quite a bit of time. While riding the subway one day, the narrator sees a newspaper article announcing that Rusty is now engaged, but he can’t see the rest of the sentence. He therefore assumes that Holly is the woman Rusty is about to marry, and he suddenly feels an overwhelming sense of jealousy—a feeling that confounds him. Reflecting upon his intense reaction, he wonders if his “outrage” has to do with the fact that he’s in love with Holly. “For I was in love with her,” he admits. However, he goes on to say that this brand of love is the same affection he used to feel for his mother’s cook and the mailman who used to let him follow him around as a child. When he makes this clarification, readers see that not all kinds of love are strictly romantic. Rather, the narrator has a strong affinity for Holly, and this affinity—this kind of love—is just as capable of inciting jealousy as true romantic feelings.
In a certain sense, Holly and the narrator’s close platonic relationship provides Holly with a refuge from a life that is otherwise overrun by male lust. Because she sustains herself by dating wealthy men, there are many hopeful suitors who are eager to become romantic with her, but she has no interest in this. Unfortunately for her, though, when she finally does fall in love with a Brazilian politician named José, she’s eventually forced to face the painful fact that he’s unwilling to stand by her when she runs into trouble with the law. In other words, José doesn’t care enough about Holly to help her out of trouble. The narrator, on the other hand, helps Holly flee the United States even though seeing her leave is the last thing he wants. This illustrates how strong their connection is, since the narrator not only acts against his own wishes in order to help her, but also puts himself in danger by supporting a fugitive. In doing so, he shows Holly that his love for her is unequivocal and uncompromising, regardless of whether or not it is of a romantic nature. Consequently, Capote highlights the beauty of platonic love, suggesting that nonromantic relationships built upon mutual support and devotion are often even more enduring, meaningful, and dependable than romantic connections.
Companionship, Love, and Sexuality ThemeTracker
Companionship, Love, and Sexuality Quotes in Breakfast at Tiffany’s
“And I swear, it never crossed my mind about Holly. You can love somebody without it being like that. You keep them a stranger, a stranger who’s a friend.”
Two men came into the bar, and it seemed the moment to leave. Joe Bell followed me to the door. He caught my wrist again. “Do you believe it?”
“That you didn’t want to touch her? ”
“I mean about Africa.”
At that moment I couldn’t seem to remember the story, only the image of her riding away on a horse. “Anyway, she’s gone.”
[…] Holly wanted to know about my childhood. She talked of her own, too; but it was elusive, nameless, placeless, an impressionistic recital, though the impression received was contrary to what one expected, for she gave an almost voluptuous account of swimming and summer, Christmas trees, pretty cousins and parties: in short, happy in a way that she was not, and never, certainly, the background of a child who had run away.
When I married Lulamae, that was in December, 1938, she was going on fourteen. Maybe an ordinary person, being only fourteen, wouldn’t know their right mind. But you take Lulamae, she was an exceptional woman. She knew good-and-well what she was doing when she promised to be my wife and the mother of my churren.
“Never love a wild thing, Mr. Bell," Holly advised him. “That was Doc’s mistake. He was always lugging home wild things. A hawk with a hurt wing. One time it was a full-grown bobcat with a broken leg. But you can’t give your heart to a wild thing: the more you do, the stronger they get. Until they’re strong enough to run into the woods. Or fly into a tree. Then a taller tree. Then the sky. That’s how you'll end up, Mr. Bell. If you let yourself love a wild thing. You’ll end up looking at the sky.”
[…]
“Good luck: and believe me […]: it’s better to look at the sky than live there. Such an empty place; so vague. Just a country where the thunder goes and things disappear.”
Or, and the question is apparent, was my outrage a little the result of being in love with Holly myself? A little. For I was in love with her. Just as I’d once been in love with my mother’s elderly colored cook and a postman who let me follow him on his rounds and a whole family named McKendrick. That category of love generates jealousy, too.
Flanked by potted plants and framed by clean lace curtains, he was seated in the window of a warm-looking room: I wondered what his name was, for I was certain he had one now, certain he’d arrived somewhere he belonged. African hut or whatever, I hope Holly has, too.