A stark and difficult account of life in prison from a man who loved ugliness, prisons and crime. A love letter to degredation and the beauty one finds there. This is a book of flowering prose that blossoms up like the golden sun and of shades of darkness and ugliness that sully everything they touch.
Partially a recounting of his time in prison following the sentencing to death of the murderer Harcamone, partially a memorial reverie into a childhood of hardship, this book is a queer revelation at a time where that was on the edge of reason. Nothing is held back, everything is on the table and Genet does not shy away from any topic.
The prose is at times very beauriful, if dense and difficult to navigate. There is a sweeping feeling like memory or a dream. And like a fever dream the images well up and bloom into black flowers of death and blood. This is not a book for the faint of heart, but neither is it a book for the cheap thrill seeker. This is a book of beauty and love for and despite decadence and ugliness. Ever scar, every smell, every rough treatment weaves its way into Genet’s tapestry of excremental beauty.
I enjoyed this book, for what it’s worth, but I don’t think it’s something I’d return to. The flowery prose gets a tad much and the product is at times difficult to digest. Keen to read more Genet and see what else this dirty bugger has to offer.