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Jean Genet

Jean Genet Books

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The Balcony

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Querelle

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Funeral Rites

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“Before Armand had granted me the esteem of which I have already spoken, I probably would not have betrayed him. The mere idea would have horrified me. So long as he had not given me his confidence, betraying him had no meaning: it meant simply obeying the elementary rule which governed my life. But now I loved him. I recognized his omnipotence. And though he might not love me, he contained me within him. His moral authority was so absolute, so generous, that it made intellectual rebellion within his bosom impossible. The only way I could prove my independence was by acting on the emotional level. The idea of betraying Armand set me aglow. I feared and loved him too much not to want to deceive and betray and rob him. I sensed the anxious pleasure that goes with sacrilege. If he were God (he had known pity), and had he been well pleased with me, it were sweet to deny him. And better still, that Stilitano, who did not love me and whom I would never have betrayed, should be helping me. His sharp personality aptly suggested the image of a dagger piercing the heart. The strength of the devil and his power over us lie in his irony. His seductiveness may be only his detachment. The force with which Armand denied the rules proved his own power—and the power of the rules over him. Stilitano smiled at them. His smile dissolved me. It was bold enough to express itself on a face of great beauty.”

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Author:Jean Genet
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“I want to fulfill myself in one of the rarest of destinies. I have only a dim notion of what it 
will be. I want it to have not a graceful curve slightly bent toward evening but a hitherto unseen beauty 
lovely because of the danger which works away at it overwhelms it undermines it. Oh let me be only utter
 beauty I shall go quickly or slowly but I shall dare what must be dared. I shall destroy appearances the 
casings will burn away and one evening I shall appear there in the palm of your hand quiet and pure like a
 glass statuette. You will see me. Round about me there will be nothing left.”

BeautyDestiny
Book:The thief's journal
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“I understand what binds the sculptor to his clay, the painter to his colors, each workman to the matter he handles, and the docility and acquiescence of the matter to the movements of the one who animates it; I know the love that passes from the fingers into the folds, the holes, the swellings. Shall I abandon him? Lucien would prevent me from living. Unless his quiet tenderness, his blushing modesty, became beneath my sun of love a tiger or a lion. If he loves me, will he follow me? What will become of him without me?”

Jean GenetThe Thief S Journal
Book:The thief's journal
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“L'enfance délaisse les mythes conventionnels accordés à une enfance conventionnelle; elle se moque des fées d'enluminure, des monstres décoratifs, et mes fées à moi étaient le svelte boucher à la moustache aiguë, l'institutrice poitrinaire, le pharmacien; tout le monde était fée, c'est-à-dire isolé par le halo d'une existence inabordable, inviolable, à travers lequel je ne percevais que des gestes dont la continuité - dont la logique et ce qu'elle a de rassurant - m'échappait, dont chaque fragment me posait une nouvelle question, mot à mot : m'inquiétait.”

Enfance
Book:Notre Dame Des Fleurs.
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“Você conheceu algum poema-veneno que faria explodir minha prisão num maço de miosótis? Uma arma que mataria o rapaz perfeito que mora em mim e me obriga a asilar todo um aglomerado de animais? As andorinhas se aninham debaixo de seus braços. Aí elas construíram um ninho de terra seca. Lagartas de veludo cor de tabaco mesclam-se nos cachos dos seus cabelos. Sob seus pés um enxame de abelhas, e ninhadas de víboras atrás dos seus olhos. Nada o emociona. Nada o perturba a não ser as meninas fazendo a primeira comunhão, pondo a língua para o padre, ajuntando as mãos, baixando os olhos. Faz frio como na neve. Sei que ele é sorrateiro. O ouro mal o faz sorrir, mas se ele sorrir, terá a graça dos anjos. Que cigano seria suficientemente veloz para livrar-me dele com um punhal inevitável? É necessário velocidade, uma boa pontaria, uma bela indiferença. E... o assassino ocupou seu lugar. Voltou esta manhã de uma volta pelas espeluncas onde viu marinheiros, putas, uma delas deixou no seu rosto o traço de uma mão sangrenta. Ele pode partir para bem longe mas é fiel como um pombo. Outra noite, uma velha atriz colocou uma camélia na sua lapela. Eu quis amassá-la: as pétalas caíram sobre o tapete (mas que tapete? Minha cela é pavimentada de pedras achatadas) em grossas gotas de água transparentes e mornas. Agora, apenas ouso olhar para ele, pois meus olhos atravessam sua carne de cristal e estes ângulos rígidos perfazem tantos arcos-íris que eis por que choro. Fim. Pode não parecer grande coisa para vocês, mas este poema me aliviou. Eu o caguei.”

Poema
Book:Our Lady of the Flowers
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“La poésie est une vision du monde obtenue par un effort, quelquefois épuisant, de la volonté tendue, arc-boutée. La poésie est volontaire. Elle n'est pas un abandon, une entrée libre et gratuite par les sens; elle ne se confond pas avec la sensualité, mais, s'opposant à elle, naissait, par exemple, le samedi, quand on sortait pour nettoyer les chambres, les fauteuils et les chaises de velours rouge, les glaces dorées et les tables d'acajou, dans le pré vert tout proche.”

Poésie
Book:Notre Dame Des Fleurs.
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“La grandeur d'un homme n'est pas seulement fonction de ses facultés, de son intelligence, de ses dons quels qu'ils soient : elle est faite aussi des circonstances qui l'ont élu pour leur servir de support. Un homme est grand s'il a un grand destin; mais cette grandeur est de l'ordre des grandeurs visibles, mesurables. Elle est la magnificence vue du dehors. Misérable peut-être, vue du dedans, elle est alors poétique, si vous voulez bien convenir que la poésie est la rupture (ou plutôt la rencontre au point de rupture) du visible et de l'invisible.”

Poésie
Book:Notre Dame Des Fleurs.
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“The reality of the Black colony within the United States is very complex. Dispersed as they are within a nation so chauvinistic that she likes to think of herself as master of the world, the blacks, who are oppressed by racism and indifference and threatened by an oрpressivе police and administration, have been forced to wage a very new type of fight. That is how the Black Panther Party was created: first of all to defend the rights of the colonized blacks inside the U.S.A., but also to synthesize new ways for blacks to struggle against white oppression. Faced with the vigor of their action and the accuracy of their political thinking, the whites--and especially the police--had a racial reaction almost immediately: as soon as the blacks proved that they were able to organize themselves, the whites rushed to discredit their organization.”

AmericaUnited StatesRacismOppressionAfrican AmericansBlacksWhitesBlack Panther PartyBlack Panthers
Author:Jean Genet
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“(...) защото отказвам да живея за друга цел освен за онази, която открих, че се съдържа още в началото на бедите ми:животът ми трябва да бъде легенда, тоест да може да се прочете и четенето му да породи ново чувство, което наричам поезия. Вече не съм нищо друго освен повод.”

Voleurs
Book:The thief's journal
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“They remain dead, the people I try to resuscitate by straining to hear what they say. But the illusion is not pointless, or not quite, even if the reader knows all this better than I do. One thing a book tries to do, beneath the disguise of words and causes and clothes and grief, is show the skeleton and the skeleton dust to come. The author too, like those of whom he speaks, is dead.”

PeopleIfsKnowsTryingBookShowsSpeakCausesGriefOne ThingReaderClothesIllusionDustDisguisePointlessSkeletons
Book:Prisoner of Love
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“When I beheld you, suddenly - for perhaps a second - I had the strength to reject everything that wasn't you and to laugh at the illusion. But my shoulders are very frail. I was unable to bear the weight of the world's condemnation. And I began to hate you when everything about you would have kindled my love and when love would have made men's contempt unbearable, and their contempt would have made my love unbearable. The fact is, I hate you.”

MenWorldMadeFactsHateLaughingBearsIllusionWeightI HateShouldersRejectsContemptHate YouUnbearableI Hate YouCondemnationFrailWeight Of The World
Book:The Blacks: A Clown Show
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“I leave you free to imagine any dialogue you please. Choose whatever may charm you. Have it, if you like, that they hear the voice of the blood, or that they fall in love at first sight... Conceive the wildest improbabilities. Have it that the depths of their beings are thrilled at accosting each other in slang. Tangle them suddenly in a swift embrace or a brotherly kiss. Do whatever you like.”

IfsFirstsMayFallVoiceImagineBloodPleaseKissingSightEmbraceFalling In LoveDepthDialogueCharmLove At First SightSlangBrotherlyImprobability
Book:Our Lady of the Flowers
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