There's a reason you've probably heard of this book even if you haven't read it, and the fact that it has, at the time of writing, 580,000 ratings on GoodReads probably underlines it - it's a classic, apparently. But, like a classic car, there are some bits that don't work too well - with some overly florid language, particularly at the beginning of the book, almost signalling that Capote is trying too hard.

Occasionally, you get the feeling that he's being paid by the word. Perhaps he was: long excerpts from letters and documents pop up every so often that do little to aid the story or to develop character.

The pacing of the story is a little odd, too, with some parts whisking by, and other parts dwelled on with glacial slowness. But then, I'm not a literature teacher, and if I were, I'd probably point out why he's doing it. But I'm not, so I don't know why.

I later discover, after reading, that it first appeared in the New Yorker as a serial, published over four editions. That might explain some of the above - a requirement to reach a natural break-point for publication, perhaps.

In any case - it's fine, it's a good read, it's told well and with flair, if slightly too much flair in some cases. It's a good true crime thriller, in the same way as others which have followed. But personally I don't think it's worth full marks here - enjoyable though it was.