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challenging
dark
slow-paced
“There is no eroticism that denies horror.” Nefando isn’t just transgressive: it’s abject. Without sentimentality, Ojeda excavates what society refuses to confront, stacking content warning upon content warning in a ruthless indictment of our collective blind spots. The result is aporic and bleak, but conceptually stunning: six distinct voices spiral through a “pornography of the real,” exposing depravity and subjugation in relentless detail.
Working at the intersection of critical theory and the body, the novel refracts suffering without simplifying it. Trauma severs meaning, leaving signifiers without signified—yet through repetition, performance, and linguistic rupture, resignification flickers into view. To speak the unspeakable, even partially, is not to defang it, but to reveal how what’s unseen still dictates what is. Literature should unsettle, and Nefando does exactly that. You’ll want to scrub your hands after, but your brain will blaze with every neural circuit alight.
Working at the intersection of critical theory and the body, the novel refracts suffering without simplifying it. Trauma severs meaning, leaving signifiers without signified—yet through repetition, performance, and linguistic rupture, resignification flickers into view. To speak the unspeakable, even partially, is not to defang it, but to reveal how what’s unseen still dictates what is. Literature should unsettle, and Nefando does exactly that. You’ll want to scrub your hands after, but your brain will blaze with every neural circuit alight.