61 CHRONICLESnJean Genet (1910-1986). Only twonbooks made me” feel physically sick:nOne was the work of the Marquis denSade; the other was Sartre’s Saint-nGenet, Comedien et Martyr, whichndepicts the playwright Jean Genet’snprison years and homosexual enjoyments.nDid the thief-pederast deserve anbiography, and more to the point, didnhe deserve incandescent praises whilenhe lived and obituaries when he diedn—not too long ago?nIn saner times he would hae beennkept in jail or some asylum, thenntransported directly from cell to cemetery.nIn ours, he has become the symbolnof an age and inspirer of its abjectnlegislation. Both he and Sartre wrotenthat good and evil are society’s inventions,nand that humanity demands thatnthose who situate themselves outsidenconvenhonal morality should have anright to their choice. Legislators allnover the Western world agree and arengrateful when homophile paraders innNew York City give up the charmingnidea of naming their portable latrinesnafter Cardinal O’Connor.nBut Genet was a great dramatist andnpoet, thus an exceptional case, chantnhis admirers. Even this is questionable,nif not false. His theatrical productionsnwere succes de scandale, andnpolice were mobilized whenever Faraventnor Balcony, both anti-Frenchnplays glorifying defeat in Algeria, werenproduced. The play Servantmaids possessesnstylistic qualities and a certainndramatic force, but these are squanderednon an artificial issue, the murdernof a mistress planned by her chambermaids,na trifling subject for a drama.nGenet as a playwright had this flawcommonnwith Beckett, Pinter, andnAlbee: the deliberate choice of thengutter as a stage set and of half-alivenwretches as characters. Greek tragediansnput the cothurnus on their actors’nfeet to make them appear not onlynmore than, but also higher than,nhuman; moderns take away the littlenhumanity that their texts leave to theirnpersonages, who are merely spokesmennfor their ideology.nCULTURAL REVOLUTIONSnThe contrast for a Jean Genet is notnonly with Sophocles; he manages pitifullyncompared to Villon, thief andnpossibly murderer, but a superb poet;nto ‘erlaine, a homosexual but whosencrystalline words sob like a violin; tonRimbaud, a corrupt adolescent savednby genius. The latter two are poetesnmaudits, accursed but aware of redemptionnthrough art and spirit.nTheirs is the itinerary of man, from sinnto purification, evil dissolved in thensacrament of literature.nIn all aspects. Genet was deservedlyna reject. His life was devoted to hatrednand vengeance from the moment thatnhe stole money as a small boy from hisnguardian parents. From this nucleusepisodenthere grew an aborted existence,nstrangely unillumined, I do notnsay by grace, but by poetic beauty. Henwas embittered by prison life, we arentold. Yet he was freed from jail as anyoung man, discovered as a minornpoet, soon as a playwright. In rarenmoments, critic Robert Poulet opines.nGenet became a true stylist, perhapsnamong the half-dozen that French literaturenproduced since the war. Thisnought to have reconciled him, if notnwith the world at large, at least withnthe mysterious world of art, next doornto creation.nThe few interviews he gave, e’en innlater years, are also marked with hatrednof everything and indifference towardnhis work. Was Genet an ideologue likenfellow poet Louis Aragon, the composernof an Ode to Stalin? Hardly. Genetnlived, as it were, negahvely, amidstnshort patches of ephemeral fame: thenbook about him by Sartre and his,nafter all, modest oeuvre as a playwright.nThe borrowed substance of hisnlife will have come from the snobbishncritics who sing posthumously hisnglory, not as a writer, but as a darknangel of pornography and an unoriginalninventor of pedestrian topics. Inntimes more noble than ours, news ofnhis death would be dispatched amongnnnthe accidents of the day. In our decadesnof twilight, Jean Genet, whoncould not make it to the rank of a poetenmaudit, will at least remain a damnednsouln-Thomas MolnarnThe Pulitzer Prizes included a surprisenthis year: The Denver Post wonnthe Public Service Award for a series ofnarticles showing that the great majoritynof “missing” children are in fact runawaysnor have been abducted by andivorced spouse. For exploding a mythnthat plays into the hands of socialnworkers and other enemies of the family,nthe Posf deserved recognidon—butnnot the Pulitzer, which is reserved fornnewspapermen who know how to follownorders.nMost of the 1986 Pulitzers werenpredictable. Two Dallas MorningnNews reporters won the “National Reporting”naward for their investigationnof racial discrimination and segregationnin East Texas. The New YorknTimes won “Explanatory Journalism”nhonors for “explaining” (i.e., editorializingnagainst) the “Star Wars” initiative.nJules Feiffer of The Village Voicentook the cartoon award for his predictablenpolitical cartoons. Jimmy Breslinnof The Daily News won the commentarynaward for reporting charges ofnpolice torture of a narcotics suspect innQueens. (The Pulitzer citation givennBreslin praised him for columns thatn”consistently champion ordinary citizens.”nNow we know what the pressnlords consider “ordinary.”) The nonfictionnaward was split between a booknon apartheid written by a New YorknTimes writer and a book on desegregationnby a former New Yor^ Timesnwriter. And so it goes.nAwarded by the Graduate School ofnJournalism of Columbia University,nthe Pulitzers carry a cash award of onlyn$1,000, but no other award in Americannjournalism bestows wider visibilitynand prestige. Yet in recent years, somenobservers have voiced doubts about thenprizes. It is not just that writers for Eastn