Disorderly human

As I was reading Agustina María Bazterrica’s Cadáver Exquisito,¹ I was surprised to acknowledge my detachment from the horrific violence perpetrated against human bodies treated as edible products. Have I become so disenchanted with the reality around me that I cannot feel anything anymore? Why, then, did the ending disturb me more than what came before?

The truth is Bazterrica’s book put me through a rather unpleasant ordeal. With the sole exception of a brief episode of mindless cruelty against puppies, I found myself repeatedly unmoved by passages where the processing of selected human lives into meat is described in vivid details. Yet when the final moments revealed the aberrant plan of the protagonist, I started reconsidering everything that had happened up to that point, including my feelings.

Cadáver Exquisito can be appreciated from different points of view. It’s a powerful critique of all sorts of capitalistic exploitation and a tale of cynical survivalism, both issues of the utmost relevance nowadays. Morevover, trans-feminism and anti-speciesism can help us interpret the text as a poignant metaphor of how ingrained the disregard for other’s human and non-human lives is in the self-proclaimed superior species.²

I have to admit, though, that I was a bit disappointed at first because most of the events seem to lack emotional depth. I was afraid the reader should only care about the shocking dystopia in front of them, whereas I was looking for intellectual gratification. Events are cut short, placidly placed one after the other, and descriptions are only pertinent insofar as the reader doesn’t lose track of the horror. I didn’t understand why Bazterrica is purposefully glossing over historical facts, for instance. I was craving for more information about the pandemic that created the alternative reality she’s presenting here.

However, I was wrong on multiple accounts. First of all, we experience everything in Cadáver Exquisito through Marcos Tejo’s acts and thoughts. In confining the reader to his mind Bazterrica rightly chooses only what’s necessary to render Marcos’ version of the story. The plain language Bazterrica uses is a brilliant technique to display the cognitive dissonance her protagonist needs in order to position himself at a safe distance from the flesh and blood he’s surrounded by.

Furthermore, this is precisely why the ending hit me so hard. From the very beginning Bazterrica is convincingly eroding Marcos’ privileged, reassuring position as a member of a society whose conditions of possibility he contributes to. But when Marcos reveals himself for who he actually is, every effort he has made to escape his world turns out to be a farce. Whether speciesism or capitalism are responsible for his productive and reproductive instincts, Bazterrica doesn’t tell. The system in place permeates everything around and, more importantly, within Marcos. Whatever we presumed that he was feeling about his father, his dogs, his sister or his wife is reduced to a single goal, that is ensuring the permanence of the very system he has never really been alienated from.

Once again, horror proves to be a genre capable of penetrating our reality with unconventional strength. We may refuse to accept the premises of Cadáver Exquisito because we believe in a different worldview, but we cannot avoid the unequivocal questions about our future. A future that inevitably includes our specific worldview among many others, humans’ and non-humans'.