By Jean Genet, Bernard Frechtman

The Thief's magazine is likely to be Jean Genet's such a lot authentically autobiographical novel, personifying his quest for religious glory during the pursuit of evil. Writing within the intensely lyrical prose type that's his trademark, the fellow Jean Cocteau dubbed France's "Black Prince of Letters" right here reconstructs his early grownup years -- time he spent as a petty felony and vagabond, touring via Spain and Antwerp, sometimes border hopping around the remainder of Europe, continually one step sooner than the gurus. "Only a handful of twentieth-century writers, comparable to Kafka and Proust, have as very important, as authoritative, as irrevocable a voice and style." -- Susan Sontag; "One of the most powerful and most important money owed of a lifestyles ever set down on paper. . . . Genet has dramatized the tale of his personal existence with an influence and imaginative and prescient which take the breath away. The Thief's magazine will surely determine Genet as probably the most bold literary figures of all time." -- the recent York Post

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I used to be jealous of my pals. eventually, Robert, who was once keen on women, begun smiling in any respect of them. They cherished him. for that reason, I felt that, with Stilitano, he was once no longer opposed to me yet fairly out of achieve. so as, given that he was once better-looking than I, to make it more straightforward for him to draw males, Stilitano gave him my outfits. Robert wore them, smiling and unembarrassed. All I had was once a couple of pants, a jacket and a few torn shirts. I concocted general schemes of revenge on Stilitano. in comparison to Armand, he grew to become flatter and flatter, missing in thickness. His attractiveness appeared insipid his speech dreary. I was hoping for brand spanking new revelations from Armand. As for Armand's conceited attitudes, i will not rather say that they have been the reason for my choice to write down pornographic books, yet I definitely used to be flabbergasted via the insolence of the reply he gave Stilitano who had requested him very frivolously, notwithstanding with a type of informal indifference, the explanation why he bought so passionately lyrical. “It's my balls,” he stated, “my balls! ladies stroll with their titties bulging out, do not they? They parade them, do not they? good i have the correct to allow my balls stick out so humans can see them, or even to supply them on a platter. i have a stunning pair of balls and i have even acquired the suitable to ship them as a gift to Pola Negri or the Prince of Wales. ” Stilitano used to be able to cynicism, now not of track. lengthy buried—where, in collecting, they thickened my rancor—his cowardice, flabbiness and laziness rose as much as poison my breath. That which had as soon as decorated him—as an ulcer sculpts and paints meat — now turned reason behind contempt. the 2 of them appeared unaware that i used to be jealous and livid and that this used to be harmful our courting. at some point while i used to be by myself along with her, Sylvia took my arm on the street. She pressed herself opposed to me. males whom I enjoyed have been, through their mutual and unambiguous friendship, slicing themselves off from me, refusing me entry to free—and joyous—-cordiality, however the lady of 1 of them, by way of her kindred wish to convenience the negative, degraded me even additional. Her hip and breast opposed to my physique virtually made me vomit. She dared say within the presence of Stilitano, without doubt to harm him, that she relatively loved me. Robert and he burst out guffawing. “The of you could move gallivanting. we are going out jointly. ” pushed away by way of their smiles, I observed myself tumbling down the steeps of sunshine the place Stilitano used to be lord. i used to be again in Spain, with my rags, my nights one of the negative, enriched by way of a few chuffed stories, yet hopeless: there i used to be, definite that each one i might ever do used to be chew the dirt and lick boots—my personal, dusty with weary tramping. the assumption of lice was once already breeding its bugs on me. It was once virtually time to hatch them and that i had stopped slicing my hair. I resolved to kill Stilitano and Robert. Failing to be a hero in glory, i wished to be one in disease. I selected the penal colony or demise through banishment. To undergo me up I had, however, the reminiscence of Armand and the wish of his returning, yet he didn't look.

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