"As in a pigsty, he thought with his head still buzzing, we are born into a fenced-in world, and like pigs rolling in their own filth, we don’t know what all this commotion around the breasts that nourish us is for, what sense this perpetual grappling in the aisle leading to the trough has, or the struggle for bedding at sunset." (L. Krasznahorkai, Satantango, Bompiani, 2017, 166-167).