Hicham Lasri, well-known conceptual artist and author, celebrates a brilliant comeback with his fifth novel, “Big Data Jihad”, a sobering statement against the background of science fiction and digital friction, but also the story of a virtual catastrophe. Not to mention a revenge fantasy. Here are the good hands, one episode at a time.
“Big Data Jihad” is a hard-hitting love story, HS social networks, watered down emotions, a God who only counts women’s tears, a world “that stinks of shit” because it’s populated by “egg holes”. In a raw register, therefore, Hicham Lasri depicts a humanity rooted in fear that makes the salt of the modern world.
Le360 invites you to discover the good points of a novel that describes a brilliant antihero who breaks the internet to punish an influencer who left him, without all the police of the world being able to find out how or why.
When I want to see monsters, I look out the window; opposite is a large mirror. Through the window of my office, I observe the assistants, the laboratory technicians, the directors, the masterminds, the engineers, the futurists, the… company soulless… They’re bent over their phone screens to let the seconds dance on the carpet of careless procrastination… But I see the invisible, I see the chains of voluntary bondage leaving the screens and binding them like dogs, beasts, slaves. They are bent over, they are carried around like puppies by the phones they carry around: always a small smile, frown, paleness as they stand alone in front of their screens. Life is replaced by a video game in which everyone plays their store of emotions, their reserves of expression and also their financial resources…
People are spending less time in the real world to take refuge in the digital grinder scrollers, how, comment, Whatsapp, Facebooker, instagram, pentagram, trollr, send spells, bring together… Delve deeper and deeper into the circles of hell, shaped like a treadmill on quicksand…
This bitch is a monster, a demon…
Monstra impune occiduntur, in your bitch mouth! Yes, we must be able to kill monsters with impunity… Ah! Jesus Christmas!
Where are the people, the faithful, the just and the decent?
It’s madness that I’ll ask for my balm…
who betrayed me
Let’s rise in gold, let’s rise in the sacred: towards the sun, maybe it will burn us and in the fire cleanse the vermin that eat the parchment of my skin…
who betrayed me
The women…
Reserved!
The women…
The Palinody!
My suffragette left with her piggy bank, I don’t know where to put my money… Ha! Ha! I was empty and she was full… Now I’m full and she is empty.
I’m a monster, yes, not the worst, but a monster. I want to take my picture sergeant pepper, Where are Gog and Magog?
I need the other specimens, the degenerates, the scraps of condoms finished with the glaviot, the swarming and legless vermin, the capitalist vampires, the whores of Babylone-Bousbir, the submissive of furnishings with an overcooked spaghetti for the spine, the wrens on their piles of garbage… Where are they? I need it for my photo with Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Balls Club Band…
And the little dicks of the Ku Klux Klan and Charles Manson, where’s Jubelo, Jubela and Jebulum? There’s a Hiram Abiff to bitch about if you want!
I just want the beautiful teratological specimen, just genetic ball sharing, just terminal degeneration, just the miracle mile, just the point of no return…
Dismantle the Minotaur and we won’t take Uncle Stan Lee paper mache or his neighbor Jack Kirby, gooey newspaper pulp…None of that here…No paper with bilious brats…
Where are the non-commercial things?
You understand it?! Go fuck you!
You’re a healthy man, don’t have snot, canker sores or rabies and don’t understand? Don’t worry about disaster, it will be too much chaos to think about the end of the world…
So you want me to do a long epileptic solo so I can own you? I can, I’m used to crappy bets and pie games.
You are where my love for the revival of Sgt Pepper? I call Yōkai, Quetzalcóatl, the Plumed Serpent, Route 666, the Jörmungand Serpent…
Cockroaches, woodlice and vermin surround me, I look like a decaying corpse…
Morbaques…
Morbaques on my grill! Haha!
“do you feel forever»
I especially feel the fat in my balls weighing on my soul…
22 million billion sperm are wasted every day in the world, and with that many people end up in the grap or pee everywhere. Strange!
That is good news! I’m dead! Broken! That’s why darkness creeps into my dreams and paints them with darkness…
” do you feel forever »