The hand holding the non-filter cigarette shakes, but the close-up of the television camera, examining every wrinkle and the stubble on his chin in an open search for the thief, the poet, the myth of Genet which verges on voyeurism, reveals eyes which are still artful; it doesn't take long for Genet to force his interviewers into a tight corner. He reviles Berlin - a "Americanised city". In 1935 he was here and fell in love with German men. Today he doesn't find them at all exciting. Germany is lost, as far as eroticism is concerned. His writing is "modest contribution, very modest ... a way of keeping out of prison". In his eye there are no Nazi war crimes, only crimes against Jews, Indians, Blacks, Palastinians. . "I don't know whether I have brought new expressions to the French language, I don't know whether I have created a new poetry. But if I have managed to do something like that it isn't because I love the French language, but because I hate it."