Massimiliano Parente
L'inumano

A world that would make no sense at all - exactly like ours - except for the saving grace of needing none. A world without us, or at most with our light version: the zero man: a being with much more hair on the stomach but without any added conscience.

Nature, no longer being able to rely on the disastrous contribution of its most imperfect creation because it's thinking, would continue indifferently to do what it has always done (flowers, plants, animals, viruses, bacteria, fires, floods, massacres of innocents, and other delights) with the result that, to the sugar-free man, he couldn't care less. In fact, an erect member, because saints and swear words are perversions of the sapiens, who, finally regressed to the state of the act of sex, ergo-I-enjoy-and-it-ends-here, would definitively tell the now-extinct categories of the divine, the human, and even the dietary to go to hell, and would have endless fun with the monk seal and the African mandrill between an earthquake and a tsunami (strictly natural).

A man who, in short, would have lost the gloss of humanity - including, and this would indeed be a drama, the red of certain incredibly arousing nails -, but would have found that of who-cares. And now let's say that all this has nothing to do with L'inumano by Massimiliano Parente (Mondadori, 19 euros).

So it's worth reading it.