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Rating: Obscene. Extreme. Porno-freak. Merciless. Sick.
Antonio Moresco publishes, after an endless series of rejections, his "Canti Del Caos," a trilogy (still unfinished today), a biography of the mind, a novel exploded in a kaleidoscope of rage, filth, and malice, a descent into depravity.
Moresco's cosmogony is populated by borderline beings, by improbable creatures: a writer, a software engineer, a copywriter and an artist, rapists of pregnant women, metaphorical beings (the man who steps on shit, the woman with scented crutches, sick designers, girls with acne and infinite menstruations, spastic gynecologists, investors, and rapists of pregnant women) who act on multiple levels, from a material plane to intersections with a video game that gradually becomes more real. The writer sinks into a spiral of increasingly extreme violence, amidst snuff movies, bondage, and parodies of spy stories, transforming the story from a sort of depraved "recherche" (the first part) into a ruthless portrait of the Universe, treated as a consumer good (the second part).
The first part, therefore, delves into the dark meanders of behavior, into the extreme pornography of film sets ("Little bodies that no one has ever seen in the face, completely bandaged, from which only child genitals and small hairless buttholes emerge, skinned, tortured") similar to slaughterhouses where both the flesh and the mind are torn apart, both of the protagonists and the readers, in an orgy of blood, excrement, and waste: a world made of terrible creatures constantly fighting against themselves to assert their identity and rise from the gray background to ignite and set ablaze, to fight and self-assert even through the denial of every social and human rule. Men and women as machines of desire, completely and utterly abandoned to it as an act of radically revolutionary.
The second part, on the other hand, shifts towards an even more fierce and extreme critique of power, with the mission of some of the characters from the first part, the advertisers, who are hired by the most important client (God) for the most difficult mission, selling the planet Earth. The advertising campaign will focus on the new Advent on the birth of a new Messiah ("[...] only this image, finally, forever, all staring at the end only that cut in the bubble of the video, all over the planet, broadcast into space by all the repeaters [...] an image to be transmitted forever, only this, forever, at fixed frame, progressively on all the televisions in the world, on all channels, gradually engulfing all other transmissions, all others [...]". The common thread is still the fight against a system that from external, network-like and global, introjects into bodies, tears abdomens, obscenely paves its way through the physicality of the protagonists, "visits the cytoplasms", connecting all existence with itself, copulating with external reality to clone itself within organisms, becoming an organism itself, endlessly reproducing.
Moresco writes with an excessive, redundant prose, but functional to the type of matter addressed. Difficult and exhausting. Moresco's words creep into the readers' heads, shock and hit them. It forces a struggle (again) with oneself, because in "Canti del Caos" even the reader is part of the Story, in a porno-hermeneutics unfolding in scenarios now irredeemably compromised, suggesting the non-existence of a pure space for criticism, but only the possibility to operate (in the sense of act but also in the medical/surgical sense) from the totalizing inside of the social and organic tumor: we are all within a sick tissue, we ourselves are sick, and the only possible action is to ignite the tissue itself and (self)destroy the existent.
"I have jumped the ditch, I have leaped over time. I accepted the challenge, I provoked it. I will cross cruelly the enemy field, making them believe God knows what, to then drag them all to where this not-yet-dreamed dream will take us, this ambush," "I am the visitor of the cytoplasms, the guest who enters homes on tiptoe and leaves them in flames. I am the groom of many brides but who has no bride. I am the man who opens bellies, who makes books explode".
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