A Cup of Cholera

Hand-to-hand combat, without half-measures or niceties. Between desire and fury. Between language and violence. No more romantic illusion of love. Only the raw lining that sustains the coexistence of two beings, who desire each other as much as they repel each other.

A house in the country. A man. A woman.
A night of sex, a morning of rage. 

The entire text is a dance of words with daggers drawn. Ideology, class resentment, sexual frustration and ego confront each other without any hope of returning alive. Feverish, almost delirious, without a safety net, incendiary, with sentences that seem not to want to end, as if the text itself were on the verge of collapse. Or orgasm. 

This book is a risk.
Like those left by the plough in dry earth.
Furrowed, scored.

Raduan Nassar, born in 1935, was never the writer that critics love to applaud. Son of Lebanese immigrants, he abandoned literature to devote himself to agriculture, with only three published works - Lavoura Arcaica, Um Copo de Cólera, Menina a Caminho. Unavoidable.