Pierre Andreani
“I sometimes see strange, ragged little men who speak with chewing gum in their mouths and with difficulty, and who perform actions whose symbolism completely escapes me.” Somewhere between Stephen King and Isidore Ducasse, full of sordid confessions and dubious, dreamlike dithyrambs, Monologue à la
Lantern pulls on the string of a bitter madness, the journey of a madman incapable of acting on his impulses. In an era literally disfigured by benevolence, do we still have the right to write a book of resentment?







