EXCERPT Do we even know what Antonin Artaud is suffering from? Even his acupuncturist, Soulié de Morant, has no idea. From the electrodes shoved up his ass, into his mouth, and into every other fucking hole they could find? From pissing out all his blood, being liquidated, like diarrhoea? The white shits? White and ugly? Is he suffering from the asymmetric warfare of the Whites? Who kill without joy, purely for the sake of it, without first plucking and painting their victims, without first getting drunk with them on the women’s drink, but just with a bullet in the head, quickly, by the side of the road, or more slowly, with repeated blows, right in the flesh.…