Unsung masterpiece of universal literature. José Donoso takes the experiments of character shape-shifting and narrative built by William Faulkner and leads them into excess, twisting the plot(s) like a Deleuzo-Guattarian nightmare in which every character, word, description becomes liquid, heterogenous, formless shadows haunting from spider-web hallucinations stuck on a witch's palate which trap every cough from the schizophrenic nature of Humberto Peñaloza's ruminations and that we do not now if they reveal obscure truths of a decadent and rotten chilean aristocracy or if they are incoherent blabberings which melt away to form shimmering clouds of smog. This is not a romantic portrait of Latin America, this is not your 'la vie en róse' boring ass Gabriel García Márquez...this was the sound of the hallucinogenics wearing off at the end of the 60's, the black obscene birds casting their grey figures over the deserted prey, over the putrid carcass slung on the andean cordilleras. Yes, your fetish for third world exotism will be challenged when reaching this black polylogue of a book.