“Every few massacres, the survivors of each devastated village are brought together and told to form a funerary procession, in the very heart of the palace where these murder orgies were thought up and organized.

A long and narrow path indicates the route to follow, and constitutes the only strip of a bluish light in a room entirely immersed in darkness, which one guesses immense.

But soon a second overhanging floor is unveiled by progressive touches of warmer light. The walkers have no right to look up, but everyone knows what stands on the terraces of these artificial cliffs: the cadavers of the slaughtered, mummified in wacky poses. And between the corpses barely held upright by metal hooks, we can see the women and the girls, beaten and tortured, the amputated children, eyes and fingers shattered, the men ripped open and in agony.

Now, deposited within the procession by rotating mechanisms of wood and bamboo, the fatties come to dance and frolic among the weepers, barely dressed in lace and ribbons. Agile in spite of their overweight, their cruel faces stretched out in grotesquely laughing grimaces, they mimic the torments of victims and survivors through throws, beats, points, entrechats and arabesques.

Nobody protests, nobody expresses reprobation: in room 635 as in the parallel reality where we rot, some of the victims suffer, while others fantasize that they share the cruelty of their oppressors.”

[iii-18]