Drawing perhaps unintentional inspiration from an aphorism of Cioran's that "a book must pry into wounds, indeed it must widen them. A book must be a danger," this collection of short stories turns the light on a conveyor belt of small contemporary disasters.
Moving between more extended and narrative texts and others that are shorter and laconic, sometimes frankly surreal, the reader is offered the senescence of a fresco, merciless and at the same time loving, from which, however, any possibility of redemptive recomposition seems excluded.