Jean Genet
Jean Genet
Jean Genet19 December 1910 – 15 April 1986) was a French novelist, playwright, poet, essayist, and political activist. Early in his life he was a vagabond and petty criminal, but he later took to writing. His major works include the novels Querelle of Brest, The Thief's Journal, and Our Lady of the Flowers, and the plays The Balcony, The Blacks, The Maids and The Screens...
NationalityFrench
ProfessionNovelist
Date of Birth19 December 1910
CountryFrance
body adrift cocaine
The vaporish cocaine loosens the contours of their lives and sets their bodies adrift, and so they are untouchable.
grief book dust
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.
betrayal pleasure knows
Anyone who's never experienced the pleasure of betrayal doesn't know what pleasure is.
men revolution rebellious
The main object of a revolution is the liberation of man... not the interpretation and application of some transcendental ideology.
fighting past mad
The time for reasoning is past; now's the time to get steamed up and fight like mad.
blood tears body
Ah those knock-out body fluids: blood, sperm, tears!
suicide suicidal lines
Would Hamlet have felt the delicious fascination of suicide if he hadn't had an audience, and lines to speak?
dream men order
A man must dream a long time in order to act with grandeur, and dreaming is nursed in darkness.
men solitude world
Beauty has no other origin than the singular wound, different in every case, hidden or visible, which each man bears within himself, which he preserves, and into which he withdraws when he would quit the world for a temporary but authentic solitude
eye gay lgbt
I'm homosexual. How and why are idle questions. It's a little like wanting to know why my eyes are green.
night hours dove
It's the hour when night breaks away from the day, my dove, let me go.
artist solitude moral
Added to the moral solitude of the murderer comes the solitude of the artist, which can acknowledge no authority, save that of another artist.
pimp
The pimp has a grin, never a smile.
dream would-be youth
Worse than not realizing the dreams of your youth, would be to have been young and never dreamed at all.