Glas 1973–1975 263
again imprisoned Genet in his truth, in a truth supposedly inscribed
in his originary project’ – an explanation all the more aggressive in
that it failed to recognize the writing as writing.^14 With the long drift
proposed in Glas, Derrida absolutely did not want to arrest Genet
in his career, ‘to draw him back, [.. .] to bridle him’. He had empha-
sized this in the middle of his text: ‘For the fi rst time I am afraid,
while writing, as they say, “on” someone, of being read by him. [.. .]
He almost never writes anymore, he has interred [enterré] literature
like no one, [.. .] and these (hi)stories of glas, seing, fl ower, horse
ought to make him shit.’^15 After the publication of Glas, Derrida
would be very touched when Genet said a few friendly words to
him on the subject, almost furtively, but he took great care never to
mention it to him again.
One of the nicest surprises that came about as a result of this typo-
graphically so inventive book was curiously oral in nature. On 3
November 1975, Jean Ristat and Antoine Bourseiller, the theatre
director and friend of Jean Genet, organized a public reading of
Glas at the Théâtre Récamier. The pages of the book were pro-
jected onto a screen, while Maria Casarès and Roland Bertin read
extracts. The experience touched Derrida deeply, as he wrote to
Bourseiller:
You have succeeded in doing something that I thought was
impossible. And I could not admire more the fact that you were
even prepared to take the risk. During the performance, you
gave me the – strange – joy of reconciliation (with what I had
written there and what came to me from elsewhere, altogether
acceptable). It was really good. And not just for me, as I now
know. Everyone experienced the scene as a sort of theatrical
and revolutionary mass, powerful, sober, uncompromising –
and they owe this to you, and know they do.^16That same day, Bourseiller described to Derrida how much joy
the evening had given him, as well, before making a suggestion:
In fact, reading Glas [.. .], what had struck me, was the tragic
sense that emerged from it, and was there throughout Monday
evening’s performance, tangible. [.. .] There were moments
that were ‘crude’ theatre, in the industrial sense of the term,
both during the rehearsals and in public. [.. .] There was no
longer any question of a philosophical text, no longer any
question of modernity, but of theatre. You can’t mistake the
meaning of silence in a theatre.
So, dear Jacques Derrida, let me cut to the chase: you need
to try to write a dialogue, quickly, without bothering about