Submerged up to his armpits in shit, Coriolino has an air of self-gratification and pours an extra smattering on his head. On the shore the faithful clap joyfully, and he utters some salty witticisms when replying to the applause so as to demonstrate his basic gravitas, his worldliness (in particular his acquaintance with the ways of the beau monde), his practical approach to life. His followers redouble their applause. Upon the marsh of manure gently hang the branches of some diarrhoea of the spirit or other. From time to time, Coriolino stretches out his arm and, extracting some sludgy fruit, throws it to the applauding crowd. He then gets out to a stir of whispered admiration. Noble ladies accost him to lick off the excrement covering him; youngsters wish to copy him and dive into the brownish pulp. They are always laughing, laughing above all at those incompetents who still bathe in clear waters: the idea of having to splash around in odourless waters almost makes them faint, shrieking with laughter.
They lunch by candle light, a tureen full of suppli’: they would love to wear a farthingale and travel around in a carriage but since they are no longer to be found, they travel in Fiat 600’s dressed up as a lizard or a bedouin. Moreover, they follow Coriolino everywhere: gratified, he feigns to be interested in their artistic excrement with the air of one who throws a bone to a dog since he too is a musician; he tries his hand at writing plays, and designs a few quick sketches with a paintbrush inserted into his anus. Yet his great fame doesn’t depend so much on his own faeces but on the quantity of international dung which he manages to collect at his own Gathering of the Foul Ones. The elderly smeared in manure and directors from the sewers arrive to bathe from every antipode of the earth.