The view of blogs as anthologies of obscure facts masquerading as personal journals seems spot on to me. But so much of Capote's writing is similarly revealing in this quiet, unassuming way. His choices have nothing exhibitionist about them. The words, when unusual, are simply right: Perry's, the murderer's, pastiche of scribblings is an anthology. In another passage, Capote describes the winter winds on the Kansas prairie as "razory." The measure of how perfect his words are is that they seemed to have always existed. Here they are, the newly-minted clichés of our future. They immediately supersede all alternatives. What else can cold February winds be other than "razory"?