a book report, of sorts
Lately, and once again, I have been ridiculously obsessed with the writings of Jean Genet. And although I don’t want to get into the habit of name-dropping too much around here, this is one of those times we shall succumb to passing along a bit of it, and why not?
I do not know what I felt at the moment, but today all I need do is summon up the vision of Stilitano for my distress to appear at once in the relationship of a cruel bird to its victim.
I’ve been in love with his writing ever since.
Of their own volition, or owing to an accident which has been chosen for them, they plunge lucidly and without complaining into a reproachful, ignominious element, like that into which love, if it is profound, hurls human beings. Erotic play discloses a nameless world which is revealed by the nocturnal language of lovers. Such language is not written down. It is whispered into the ear at night in a hoarse voice. At dawn it is forgotten.
Jean Genet’s writing is some kind of violently-romanticized, unnaturally over-extended not-quite-stream-of-consciousness poetry-as-autobiographical-novel beauty-thing whose style has affected me for so many years that I can’t begin to remember when I started stealing from it. Was it the first time I tried and failed to read Our Lady? Most likely not.
Genet writes about the love of his life with every word. His subjects almost exclusively are those of criminals, prison, homosexuality and the eternal connectivity he experienced in regards to them.
Most of Genet’s work incorporates themes related to prison life: the inversion of bourgeois morals, prostitution, murder, theft, betrayal, and the complex formation of identities associated with criminal subcultures.
- glbtq
It’s almost impossible to explain the beauty contained in his words, or the cruel, childish love contained in his stories. I remember a friend once summing up his style by describing how Genet could spend two full pages just to describe even the faintest movement of a character’s hand. I prefer to think of the ways in which he makes every moment fill up with a heavenly charm, inflating them all to the point that, in his own words, they sing with their own beauty, and thus all will become eternal. And when describing his style it must be noted (as all Genet reviews do) the extremely sexual nature of his use of language, even when he’s not describing anything in any type of overtly sexual way, Genet’s writing is forever drenched in highly erotic tension and (of course) release.
Genet works to subvert the traditional set of moral values of his assumed readership. He celebrates a beauty in evil, emphasizing his singularity as he raises violent criminals to icons, enjoys the specificity of gay gesture and coding and depicts scenes of betrayal.
- Wikipedia
I just finished reading the famous The Thief’s Journal, likely his most openly autobiographical novel. It’s a masterpiece. His writing always has an element of self-awareness and in The Thief’s Journal this is most evident. As the reader, it always feels like Genet is speaking directly to you, and many times that’s exactly what is happening. Without batting an eyelash, Genet will jump out of a story and begin speaking directly about his writing, or even about his legacy to come.
This kind of definition-by so many opposing examples-of violence shows you that I shall not make use of words the better to depict an event or its hero, but so that they may tell you something about myself. In order to understand me, the reader’s complicity will be necessary. Nevertheless, I shall warn him whenever my lyricism make me lose my footing.
Simply stated, I could talk for hours and hours about this man, and his writing of course. I’m quite certain that over time I have pretty much fallen in love with him through his books, owing no doubt to the simple fact that although he speaks to the reader knowing we are the outsiders looking in on his world, we still somehow feel that Genet has always loved us, too.
Beneath a tragic sky, I was to cross the loveliest landscapes in the world when Stilitano took my hand at night. … I walked along dangerous shores, emerged into dismal plains, heard the sea. Hardly had I touched him, when the stairway changed: he was master of the world. With the memory of those brief moments, I could describe to you walks, breathless flights, pursuits, in countries of the world where I shall never go.
by chris on August 30th, 2006 @ 12:00 pm
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