MIRIAM 
di Truman Capote
Uno dei racconti che preferisco in assoluto, è quello che s’intitola "Miriam" ed è stato scritto nel 1945 da Truman Capote.  Il nome del titolo si riferisce a  una ragazzina di 11 anni, pestifera e inquietante che all'improvviso invade la vita di un’anziana vedova solitaria, Mrs. Miller, sullo sfondo di una New York descritta con toni cupi di un inverno nevoso. Quando lo lessi la prima volta molti anni acquistando un libro di racconti su una bancarella a New York, non capii la vera e profonda ragione per cui mi colpì allo stomaco. Non mi colpì solo la perfezione del racconto ma l'invenzione di una vicenda che riguardava certi aspetti del subconscio. Chi è la Miriam di Capote? Perché  la bambina e la vedova hanno lo stesso nome?. Alter ego, doppio, proiezione allucinatoria? La ragione era che, man mano che leggevo, provavo una sensazione di tensione che veniva causata dal fatto che ciò che appariva normale, banale, familiare diventava inspiegabilmente troppo familiare, sconosciuto, strano. Mentre leggevo, la mia attenzione veniva catturata da quei momenti in cui una sensazione di familiarità era immediatamente seguita da un sentimento di paura o quando i sentimenti di attrazione lasciavano il posto a sentimenti di repulsione. Il racconto propone  molti di questi momenti, come quando la signora Miller prima vede Miriam fuori dal cinema, e anche più avanti nella storia quando vede il vecchio mentre fa shopping. Questi momenti non vengono mai spiegati e rimangono interrogativi sul loro significato e scopo.
“Miriam è un doppio”, dichiarò Capote, “come tanti altri doppi della mia opera. E’ il doppio della signora Miller, come la bambola che a un certo punto fa la sua comparsa è a sua volta è il doppio di Miriam”. E ancora così si conclude il racconto: "In periodi di terrore e di immensa disperazione vi sono momenti in cui la mente rimane in attesa di una rivelazione, quando sul pensiero si stende un velo di calma; è come un sonno, una trance soprannaturale; e durante questa pausa si è consci di possedere una forza di lucido ragionamento: bene, e se la signora Miller non avesse mai conosciuto una bimba di nome Miriam?”
ESTRATTO
“Miriam”
di Truman Capote
For several years, Mrs. H. T. Miller had lived alone in a pleasant apartment (two rooms with kitchenette) in a remodeled brownstone near the East River. She was a widow: Mr. H. T. Miller had left a reasonable amount of insurance. Her interests were narrow, she had no friends to speak of, and she rarely journeyed farther than the corner grocery. The other people in the house never seemed to notice her: her clothes were matter-of-fact, her hair iron-gray, clipped and casually waved; she did not use cosmetics, her features were plain and inconspicuous, and on her last birthday she was sixty-one. Her activities were seldom spontaneous: she kept the two rooms immaculate, smoked an occasional cigarette, prepared her own meals, and tended a canary. Then she met Miriam. It was snowing that night. Mrs. Miller had finished drying the supper dishes and was thumbing through an afternoon paper when she saw an advertisement of a picture 
playing at a neighborhood theater. The title sounded good, so she struggled into her beaver coat, laced her galoshes, and left the apartment, leaving one light burning in the foyer: she found nothing more disturbing than a sensation of darkness.
The snow was fine, falling gently, not yet making an impression on the pavement. The wind from the river cut only at street crossings. Mrs. Miller hurried, her head bowed, oblivious as a mole burrowing a blind path. She stopped at a drugstore and bought a package of peppermints.
A long line stretched in front of the box office; she took her place at the end. There would be (a tired voice groaned) a short wait for all seats. Mrs. Miller rummaged in her leather handbag till she collected exactly the correct change for admission. The line seemed to be taking its own time and, looking around for some distraction, she suddenly became conscious of a little girl standing under the edge of the marquee. Her hair was the longest and strangest Mrs. Miller had ever seen: absolutely silver-white, like an albino’s. It flowed waist-length in smooth, loose lines. She was thin and fragilely constructed. There was a simple, special elegance in the way she stood with her thumbs in the pockets of a tailored plum-velvet coat.
Mrs. Miller felt oddly excited, and when the little girl glanced toward her, she smiled warmly. The little girl walked over and said, "Would you care to do me a favor?"
"I’d be glad to, if I can," said Mrs. Miller.
"Oh, it’s quite easy. I merely want you to buy a ticket for me; they won’t let me in otherwise. Here, I have the money. And gracefully she handed Mrs. Miller two dimes and a nickel.They went over to the theater together. An usherette directed them to a lounge; in twenty minutes the picture would be over.
"I feel just like a genuine criminal," said Mrs. Miller gaily, as she sat down. "I mean that sort of thing’s against the law, isn’t it? I do hope I haven’t done the wrong thing. Your mother knows where you are, dear? I mean she does, doesn’t she?"
The little girl said nothing. She unbuttoned her coat and folded it across her lap. Her dress underneath was prim and dark blue. A gold chain dangled about her neck, and her fingers, sensitive and musical-looking, toyed with it. Examining her more attentively, Mrs. Miller decided the truly distinctive feature was not her hair, but her eyes; they were hazel, ateady, lacking any childlike quality whatsoever and, because of their site, seemed to consume her small face.
Mrs. Miller offered a peppermint. "What’s your name, dear?"
"Miriam," she said, as though, in some curious way, it were information already familiar.
"Why, isn’t that funny—my name’s Miriam, too. And it’s not a terribly common name either. 
Now, don’t tell me your last name’s Miller!"
"Just Miriam."
"But isn’t that funny?’
"Moderately," said Miriam, and rolled the peppermint on her tongue.
Mrs. Miller flushed and shifted uncomfortably. "You have such a large vocabulary for such a little girl."
"Do l?’
"Well, yes," said Mrs. Miller, hastily changing the topic to:
"Do you like the movies?"
"I really wouldn’t know," said Miriam. "I’ve never been before."
Women began filling the lounge; the rumble of the newsreel bombs exploded in the distance. 
Mrs. Miller rose, tucking her purse under her arm. "I guess I’d better be running now if I want to get a seat," she said. "It was nice to have met " Miriam nodded ever so slightly.
It snowed all week. Wheels and footsteps moved soundlessly on the street, as if the business of living continued secretly behind a pale but impenetrable curtain. In the falling quiet there was no sky or earth, only snow lifting in the wind, frosting the window glass, chilling the rooms, deadening and hushing the city. At all hours it was necessary to keep a lamp lighted, and Mrs. Miller lost track of the days: Friday was no different from Saturday, and on Sunday she went to the grocery: closed, of course.
That evening she scrambled eggs and fixed a bowl of tomato soup. Then, after putting on a flannel robe and cold creaming her face, she propped herself up in bed with a hot water bottle under her feet. She was reading the Times when the doorbell rang. At first she thought it must be a mistake and whoever it was would go away. But it rang and rang and settled to a persistent buzz. She looked at the clock: a little after eleven; it did not seem possible, she was always asleep by ten.
Climbing out of bed, she trotted barefoot across the living room. "I’m coming, please be patient." The latch was caught; she turned it this way and that way and the bell never pawed an instant. ‘Stop it," she cried. The bolt gave way and she opened the door an inch. "What in heaven’s name?"
"Hello," said Miriam.
"Oh ... why, hello," said Mrs. Miller, stepping hesitantly into the hall. "You’re that little girl."
"1 thought you’d never answer, but I kept my finger on the button; I knew you were home. Aren’t you glad to see me?"
Mrs. Miller did not know what to say. Miriam, she saw, wore the same plum-velvet coat and now she had also a beret to match; her white hair was braided in two shining plaits and looped at the ends with enormous white ribbons.
"Since I’ve waited so long, you could at least let me in," she said. "It’s awfully late
Miriam regarded her blankly. "What difference does that make? Let me in. It’s cold out here and I have on a silk dress." Then, with a gentle gesture, she urged Mrs. Miller aside and passed into the apartment.
She dropped her coat and beret on a chair. She was indeed wearing a silk dress. White silk. White silk in February. The skirt was beautifully pleated and the sleeves long; it made a faint rustle as she strolled about the room. "I like your place," she said. "I like the rug, blue’s my favorite color." She touched a paper rose in a vase on the coffee table. "Imitation," she commented wanly. "How sad. Aren’t imitations sad?" She seated herself on the sofa, daintily spreading her skirt.
"What do you want?" asked Mrs. Miller.
"Sit down," said Miriam. "It makes me nervous to see people stand." Mrs. Miller sank to a hassock. "What do you want?" she repeated. "You know, I don’t think you’re glad I came."