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I'm homosexual. How and why are idle questions. It's a little like wanting to know why my eyes are green.

Jean Genet

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Jean Genet
Age: 75 †
Born: 1910
Born: December 19
Died: 1986
Died: April 15
Author
Film Director
Film Editor
Military Personnel
Novelist
Playwright
Poet
Screenwriter
Writer
Paris
France
Questions
Green
Eyes
Eye
Homosexual
Littles
Idle
Little
Wanting
Like
Gay

More quotes by Jean Genet

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Perhaps all music, even the newest, is not so much something discovered as something that re-emerges from where it lay buried in the memory, inaudible as a melody cut in a disc of flesh. A composer lets me hear a song that has always been shut up silent within me.
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Solitude, as I understand it, does not signify an unhappy state, but rather secret royalty, profound incommunicability yet a more or less obscure knowledge of an invulnerable singularity.
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A great wind swept over the ghetto, carrying away shame, invisibility and four centuries of humiliation. But when the wind dropped people saw it had been only a little breeze, friendly, almost gentle.
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Poetry is the break (or rather the meeting at the breaking point) between the visible and the invisible.
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When the judge calls the criminal's name out he stands up, and they are immediately linked by a strange biology that makes them both opposite and complementary. The one cannot exist without the other. Which is the sun and which is the shadow? It's well known some criminals have been great men.
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It's a true image, born of a false spectacle.
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What I did not yet know so intensely was the hatred of the white American for the black, a hatred so deep that I wonder if every white man in this country, when he plants a tree, doesn't see Negroes hanging from its branches.
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Betrayal is beautiful.
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The despondency that follows makes me feel somewhat like a shipwrecked man who spies a sail, sees himself saved, and suddenly remembers that the lens of his spyglass has a flaw, a blurred spot -- the sail he has seen.
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By stretching language we'll distort it sufficiently to wrap ourselves in it and hide.
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In order to weep, I had descended to the realm of the dead themselves, to their secret chambers, led by the invisible but soft hands of birds down stairways which were folded up again as I advanced. I displayed my grief in the friendly fields of death, far from men: within myself.
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I give the name violence to a boldness lying idle and enamored of danger.
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My heart's in my hand, and my hand is pierced, and my hand's in the bag, and the bag is shut, and my heart is caught.
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Would Hamlet have felt the delicious fascination of suicide if he hadn't had an audience, and lines to speak?
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The vaporish cocaine loosens the contours of their lives and sets their bodies adrift, and so they are untouchable.
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A man must dream a long time in order to act with grandeur, and dreaming is nursed in darkness.
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Anyone who hasn't experienced the ecstasy of betrayal knows nothing about ecstasy at all.
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We know that their adventures are childish. They themselves are fools. They are ready to kill or be killed over a card-game in which an opponent - or they themselves - was cheating. Yet, thanks to such fellows, tragedies are possible.
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I don't want to disappear.
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on him, under him, with his mouth pressed to hers, he sang to her uncouth songs that moved through her body.
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