Even more unsettling than the mariage between eroticism, grotesque and macabre,there is in Toshio Saeki's work a highly disconcerting nature that translates in the reader’s eyes into a sense of intimacy and complete strangeness. Each and everyone is convinced to find something they already know: Hiroshige's precise stroke, Sade's perversity, themes dear to Ranpo, Herge's clear trait. Our own references are delivered to us in a new way, distorted, poisonous. Is this illusion the key to embrace a paradoxical style, drawing from purity its stroke's perfection and its always renewed inspiration in vice? There is a vertiginous quality in this arithmetics of cruelty that unfolds endless variations around sado-masochistic fantasies.