I ran into this book in The New Yorker. The author of the article brought up this Russian philosopher's examination of Rabelais's Renaissance-era comedy while discussing how Volodymyr Zelenskyy's former life as a comedian factors in the fight against Russia. What's interesting is, the book actually seems to frown on comedy as satirical resistance. In fact, you could easily characterize the book as a 500-page defense of poop jokes—he argues comedy that has an individual target is almost worthless, but comedy that joins the hoi polloi together in gleeful abandon pulls power down from cosmic, divine, virtuous enormity and gives it to the common, unsophisticated person, the kind of person who eats too much, drinks too freely, and defecates without compunction. It's basically saying the simple act of calling everyone you dislike "retarded jagoffs" removes fear. So, basically, that Ivy League-educated, well paid, richly connected writer for The New Yorker namedropping an obscure Russian philosophy book in order to produce timely content for their snooty magazine, whether or not the message of the book is actually a sensical fit for the situation (it far better explains the vulgarity embraced by the right against progressive shame) seems to me like a retarded jagoff. Three stars.