Ruy Feben nurturs his obsessions and orients himself, with this second book, definitively towards the construction of a singular narrative project, wherever he is seen, within the panorama of Mexican literature today. In this Malebolge there are not Dante's fraudulent ones, but those who see it logical that the trees grow, always, everywhere; those who go through everyday life, but headlong into the head; those who read in the opposite direction; those who make insane dealings with hellish bureaucracy; those who survive drunkenness that open up new dimensions of space-time; those who work in buildings that rise wild; those who become infected with language, dizziness, paranoia and uncertainty (that evil suffered by David Foster Wallace, Richard Brautigan, Philip K. Dick or Kurt Vonnegut).
Malebolge's characters seem doomed to read an unfinished book that tell their own lives in real time. But in this cursed book the words are made water and, with them, the real enters into permanent crisis, decomposes and rises simultaneously.