Milagro de la rosa fue escrita en una celda de la mítica cárcel parisina de La Santé. Redactada clandestinamente en pedazos de papel robados de los talleres de esta prisión, destinados originalmente a la fabricación de bolsas, es una de las grandes novelas autobiográficas de la segunda mitad del siglo XX. En ella, el sexo y el amor son siempre extremos; y la violencia y la catástrofe aparecen siempre envueltas por el rito.

El amor, tan puro y extraño como esas flores que crecen en el fango, se eleva sobre las vivencias en cárceles y correccionales para convertir su lectura en una experiencia nueva y renovadora, donde la sordidez conforma la verdadera belleza literaria, mientras seguimos leyendo, seducidos y fascinados por esta historia de historias.

Hermosa y demoledora, Milagro de la rosa anticipa en muchos de sus pasajes la contracultura europea y norteamericana que estaba por nacer: de la potencia descarnada de la poesía de Allen Ginsberg al humor provocador de Joe Orton; de las imágenes tortuosas de Fassbinder y el Nuevo Cine Alemán a la prosa carnal de Hanif Kureishi en Mi hermosa lavandería o Intimidad.

He aquí un corazón al desnudo, según reclamara Baudelaire. Una obra rotunda para lectores audaces y descarados.

The miasma of history readily befuddles me. It leaves me stranded and confused. That said, sometime in the last century a friend told me something. In her words, I needed to get rid of those gay books and listen to Eminem. Not usually falling prey to suggestions for life changing elements, I did in this case. I listened to the hip hop artist's first two albums a number of times. I don't like hip hop, but i am from Detroit. I wasn't excited by the music. I couldn't tell if it all was a marketing ploy to snare the angst of the alienated: a meaner grundge with intent to straddle the racial divide. Most of all, I felt really sad for Mr. Mathers. Giving expression to such ideas of revenge has to stem from an unpleasant place. So I gather in my amateur analysis. There are signs of damage.

Such was largely my response to the Miracle of the Rose. The accounts drift into dreams and what emerges is bruised and ugly, despite the images of flowers, birds and birth. The novel was painful to absorb. I felt myself unable to find purchase. I kept slipping in the misery of abuse and betrayal. Genet's need to for acceptance in the "womb" of the institution and prison proved difficult to bear. I quickly admit that it was relief to finish the book.
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Genet's second novel is perhaps the one most directly entrenched in his prison experience. The fluctuation in setting from the boys' penal colony of Mettray to the prison at Fontevrault and the narrator's darting focus between his changing lovers and his mystical reverence for Harcamone make this novel somewhat messier than Our Lady of the Flowers or The Thief's Journal, however. Despite that, the passages dedicated to Harcamone's power, beauty, and mystical ascension are some of Genet's most beautiful and powerful writing. A thoroughly rewarding if slightly erratic narrative. ( )