'Assassin and genius? It's been known... after all... Perhaps it's the case with Sartre? Assassin he is, he'd like to be, agreed, but genius? Small turd in my genius arse? Him? Remains to be seen... yes, certainly that can blossom... become manifest... but J-P.S.? Those foetus's eyes? those mean shoulders? that little pot-belly? tape-worm, yes, human tape-worm, situated you know where... and philosopher! that's quite a few things... It seems that he liberated Paris on a bicycle. He has... in the theatre, in Society... played about with the war, tortures, prison, fire. But times are changing, and now he's growing, swelling enormously J-P.S.! He cannot control himself any more... doesn't recogise himself any more... from the embryo which he is, he's moving towards becoming a creature!'
We at Burning Pyre applaud his genius, and plug him/ us shamelessly once again:

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