Our Lady of the Flowers

Finished Genet's first novel, Our Lady of the Flowers. The essential plotlessness became a little tedious as it went on. I realize he wrote this beast in prison and had plenty of time on his hands, but as a creature of liberty I had to prod myself occasionally to stick through to the end. Still, I was much taken with his saturated use of language and color. Like blooddrops on flowers. A real desperate sense of seizing life by the throat, straight from the pen of an outlaw. Occurred to me that Genet is sort of the gay Henry Miller.

As for Sartre's introduction, I read about three paragraphs before abandoning it as hopelessly pedantic. Maybe it's a brilliant analysis, but I sure didn't want to be the one to sit through it.