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In a shady southern tavern whose name I do not care to remember, some dubious patrons claim to have witnessed the apparition of two fuzzy men from other times. One quarrelsome and on horseback, the other swarthy and on foot. Imminence of blood could be guessed but before anything definitive happens, the scene fades into the dark blur of the drunken night.
Throughout its more than five hundred pages, the award-winning author describes in a simple and unpretentious style how he eats. The definitive novel that manages to erase the boundaries between literature, journalism, autobiographical chronicle and hematophagy. After reading it there's absolutely nothing left.
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