ABSTRACT
There is a close relationship between flowers and convicts. The fragility and delicacy of the former are of the same nature as the brutal insensitivity of the latter. My sexual excitement is the oscillation from the one to the other. Should I have to portray a convict—or a criminal—I shall so bedeck him in flowers that, as he disappears beneath them, he will himself become a flower, a gigantic and new one. 1
