Set in a Rio de Janeiro insane asylum, this novel is written as a poetic stream of consciousness by the schizophrenic narrator. We experience, alongside him, the thin line between 'reality' and delusion as he drifts in and out of lucidity, captivated all the while by the comic inventiveness of his style in such a dire situation.
Some Christian, one Sunday, appeared right near my cell and left a little leaflet. I looked at it and read it when the doses weren’t high and they let me read, then I ripped up the paper. My God! Fundamentalists are taking over the world. They’re even coming here to recruit the utterly fucked. Religion nowadays just fucks with people. I think they knew there were a lot of alcoholics in here. Religion isn’t just the opium of the people. But it’s what keeps people happy. It’s a sad thing when a nation needs religion to lean on. It’s worse than a lunatic who’s been cured, but will always need the support of another person to be happy. Better to be an incurable lunatic.