On him, under him, with his mouth pressed to hers, he sang to her uncouth songs that moved through her body.
JEAN GENETBeauty 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.
More Jean Genet Quotes
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Love makes use of the worst traps. The least noble. The rarest. It exploits coincidence.
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Violence is a calm that disturbs you.
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The fame of heroes owes little to the extent of their conquests and all to the success of the tributes paid to them.
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Betrayal is beautiful.
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Men endowed with a wild imagination should have, in addition, the great poetic faculty of denying our universe and its values so that they may act upon it with sovereign ease.
JEAN GENET -
Worse than not realizing the dreams of your youth, would be to have been young and never dreamed at all.
JEAN GENET -
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.
JEAN GENET -
Though they may not always be handsome men doomed to evil posses the manly virtues.
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They spent their time doing nothing… they let intimacy fuse them.
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Prisons! Prisons! Prisons, dungeons, blessed places where evil is impossible since they are the crossroads of all the malediction in the world. One cannot commit evil in evil.
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What we need is hatred. From it our ideas are born.
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When we see life, we call it beautiful. When we see death, we call it ugly. But it is more beautiful still to see oneself living at great speed, right up to the moment of death.
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Anyone who’s never experienced the pleasure of betrayal doesn’t know what pleasure is.
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Anyone who knows a strange fact shares in its singularity.
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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.
JEAN GENET