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Rating: Twenty-seven months of monologue in a smoky night in Lisbon, "Vede, mia cara", an alcoholic vomit of consciousness, of oily, icy, acrid dawns, full of bitterness and rancor. It is an hourglass of red soil with tight and indistinguishable times, a flip book of words, where synesthetic images follow one another at a dizzying pace, forming a modern triptych of the Temptations of Saint Anthony filled with unrest.
In the background, the Portuguese colonial war in Angola, a warm and viscous weave of horror and malaria, of soulless soldiers, of desperate and animalistic sexuality, of a hidden need for tenderness. Pulling the strings comfortably from afar, the gentlemen of Lisbon, the city without mystery of Salazar and the opulent and Catholic hypocrisy of the Estado Novo, masked with false papier-mâché pomp.
The protagonist is humanity: an inhuman humanity, where man eats man, shredded by twenty-seven months of senseless war in the guts, raped by the PIDE, kept standing by violence and morphine, starved for death. Terrified of death. A fragile and melancholic humanity, frightened like a caged beast, disoriented in the immense marshes of Africa or in the tiled aquarium of a room in Lisbon. An unhappy, disenchanted, and cynical humanity that does not even aspire to a happiness that is nothing but that condition arising from the impossible convergence of parallels between an acidity-free digestion and satisfied, remorseless selfishness.
A peculiar humanity that becomes universal.
Two hundred Céline-like and autobiographical pages, two hundred stitches cobbled together clumsily with thick thread. Two hundred wounds that, after overcoming the unexpected impact of the beginning, will leave you hypnotized and stunned, horrified and comforted, vulnerable and human.
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