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Rating: At the banquet of modernity, the only interesting thing is the leftovers, whether you are dogs or not.
Better a sandwich in solitude as all schools of wisdom teach.
The world is unbreathable, it always has been and always will be.
The twentieth century simply stripped away all illusions, including Pasolini's ideas of the people.
A century of avant-gardes, the twentieth century, the same ones that in a mad quarter of an hour Rimbaud, with messianic foresight, had frantically traversed only to spit on them.
That spit was for the future, it was for us. And it still drops on our face like a useless tear...
P.S. obviously the book is an essay, but I didn't find it under the genres.
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