In the country where popular saints, dead for three centuries, demand to have their vestments changed every twenty-five years, and illiterate monks converse with lizards or throw Darwin in the trash, even the most paranoid monstrosity is integrated into a peculiar "normality," while at the same time any attempt to articulate even a rudimentary "rational discourse" is considered "outrageous," if not dictated by the Devil himself. Above and behind this medieval regression, in the hard core of the European Union, with the consent of political authorities and justice conspicuously absent, a monstrous "collection mechanism" is set up around uncontrolled "sacred relics" and blatant "miracle frauds" with incalculable profits. Petros Tatsopoulos, eighteen years after the bittersweet Kindness of Strangers, returns with a high-intensity autobiographical narrative and with the unwavering intention to call things by their name.