Abstract
In the following essay, I am going to account my experience and my struggle in studying and learning Foucault, 40 years after his death and, at the same time, after more than 50 years I started to read his Work. Now I am absolutely sure that reading Foucault during all these years, as well as other authors – but in a peculiar way with Foucault – was part of my personal analyses, I would call it: the literary part of my personal sessions. Foucault was not just a difficult baroque writer to be understood, he was helping me to emerge from the typical provincial middle-class mentality; which was not just awareness; it was much more. Instead of cognitive awareness, I should call it an upheaval of feelings. Foucault was one of the most scandalous anti-humanists in the humanities, the reading of Foucault permitted me to cross disgust, anger, and fear. He was for me – together with Deleuze, Bateson, Pasolini, Guattari and many others – like Caron, making me see the marvelous panorama of hell: humanity.
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