![]() ![]() (10/11)Īn unwinding pool of obscure angles, a glass of tea, an opened journal, and a round metal table balanced with an empty matchbook. Devastated, he wrote: I am shorn of my infamy. Genet served his time in Fresnes prison, bitterly lamenting that he would never attain the grandeur that he aspired to. ![]() He had ascended the ladder toward them: reform school, petty thief, and three-time loser but as he was sentenced the prison he’d held in such reverence was closed, deemed inhumane, and the last living inmates were returned to France. In his Journal he wrote of a hierarchy of inviolable criminality, a manly saintliness that flowered at its crown in the terrible reaches of French Guiana. In The Thief’s Journal Jean Genet had written of Saint-Laurent as hallowed ground and of the inmates incarcerated there with devotional empathy. I had long wished to see the remains of the French penal colony where hard-core criminals were once shipped before being transferred to Devil’s Island. Without hesitation I chose Saint-Laurent-du-Maroni, a border town in northwest French Guiana, on the North Atlantic coast of South America. ![]() Some months before our first wedding anniversary Fred told me that if I promised to give him a child he would first take me anywhere in in the world. ![]()
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