Are There Censored Versions Of Salò, Or The 120 Days Of S*** Available?

Growing up around stacks of scandalous novels and dusty philosophy tomes, I always thought '120 Days of Sade' was less a simple story and more a concentrated acid test of ideas. On one level it’s a product of the libertine tradition—an extreme push against moral and religious constraints that were choking Europe. Marquis de Sade was steeped in Enlightenment debates; he took the era’s fascination with liberty and reason and twisted them into a perverse experiment about what absolute freedom might look like when detached from empathy or law. Beyond the philosophical provocation, the work is shaped by personal and historical context. De Sade’s life—prison stints, scandals, and witnessing aristocratic decay—feeds into the novel’s obsession with power hierarchies and moral hypocrisy. The elaborate cataloging of torments reads like a satire of bureaucratic order: cruelty is presented with the coolness of an administrator logging entries, which makes the social critique sting harder. Reading it left me unsettled but curious; it’s the kind of book that forces you to confront why we have restraints and what happens when they’re removed, and I still find that terrifyingly fascinating.

If you're hoping for a compact roadmap through who’s named 'The 120 Days of Sodom' as an influence, I can give you a little guided tour from my bookshelf and brain. Georges Bataille is a must-mention: he didn't treat Sade as mere shock value but as a crucible for thinking about transgression and the limits of experience. Roland Barthes also dug into Sade—his essay 'Sade, Fourier, Loyola' probes what Sade's work does to language and meaning. Michel Foucault repeatedly used Sade as a touchstone when mapping the relationship of sexuality, power, and discourse; his discussions helped rehabilitate Sade in modern intellectual history. Gilles Deleuze contrasted Sade and masochism in his writings on desire and structure, using Sade to think through cruelty and sovereignty. On the creative side, Jean Genet admired the novel's radicalness and Pasolini famously turned its logic into the film 'Salò, or the 120 Days of Sodom'. Henry Miller and William S. Burroughs are two twentieth-century writers who wore Sade's influence on their sleeves, drawing on his transgressive frankness for their own boundary-pushing prose. Each of these figures treated Sade differently—some as philosopher, some as antiseptic mirror, some as provocation—and that variety is what keeps the dialogue with 'The 120 Days of Sodom' so alive for me.

A tiny film like 'Slow Days, Fast Company' sneaks up on you with a smile. I got hooked because it trusts the audience to notice the small stuff: the way a character fiddles with a lighter, the long pause after a joke that doesn’t land, the soundtrack bleeding into moments instead of slapping a mood on. That patient pacing feels like someone handing you a slice of life and asking you to sit with it. The dialogue is casual but precise, so the characters begin to feel like roommates you’ve seen grow over months rather than protagonists in a two-hour plot sprint. Part of the cult appeal is its imperfections. It looks homemade in the best way possible—handheld camerawork, a few continuity quirks, actors who sometimes trip over a line and make it more human. That DIY charm made it easy for communities to claim it: midnight screenings, basement viewing parties, quoting odd little lines in group chats. The soundtrack—small, dusty indie songs and a couple of buried classics—became its own social glue; I can still hear one piano loop and be transported back to that exact frame. For me, it became a comfort film, the sort I’d return to on bad days because it doesn’t demand big emotions, it lets you live inside them. It inspired other indie creators and quietly shifted how people talked about pacing and mood. When I think about why it stuck, it’s this gentle confidence: it didn’t try to be everything at once, and that refusal to shout made room for a loyal, noisy little fandom. I still smile when a line pops into my head.

That stretch of nine days in the movie's ending landed like a soft drumbeat — steady, ritualistic, and somehow inevitable. I felt it operate on two levels: cultural ritual and psychological threshold. On the ritual side, nine days evokes the novena, those Catholic cycles of prayer and petition where time is deliberately stretched to transform grief into acceptance or desire into hope. That slow repetition makes each day feel sacred, like small rites building toward a final reckoning. Psychologically, nine is the last single-digit number, which many storytellers use to signal completion or the final stage before transformation. So the characters aren’t just counting days; they’re moving through a compressed arc of mourning, decision, and rebirth. The pacing in those scenes—quiet mornings, identical breakfasts, small changes accumulating—made me sense the characters shedding skins. In the final frame I saw the nine days as an intentional liminal corridor: a confined period where fate and free will tango. It left me with that bittersweet feeling that comes from watching someone finish a long, private ritual and step out changed, which I liked a lot.

Stepping into those first 90 days can feel like booting up a brand-new game on hard mode — there’s excitement, uncertainty, and a dozen systems to learn. I treat it like a mission: first, scope the map. Spend the early weeks listening more than speaking. I make a deliberate effort to talk with a cross-section of people — direct reports, peers, stakeholders — to map out who has influence, who’s carrying hidden knowledge, and where the landmines are. That listening phase isn’t passive; I take notes, sketch org charts, and start forming hypotheses that I’ll test. Next, I hunt for achievable wins that align with bigger goals. That might be fixing a broken process, clarifying a confusing priority, or helping a teammate unblock a project. Those small victories build credibility and momentum faster than grand plans on day one. I also focus on cadence: weekly check-ins, a public roadmap, and rituals that signal stability. That consistency helps people feel safe enough to take risks. Finally, I read 'The First 90 Days' and then intentionally ignore the parts that don’t fit my context. Frameworks are useful, but culture is the real game mechanic. I try to be honest about my blind spots, ask for feedback, and adjust. By the end of the third month I aim to have a few validated wins, a clearer strategy, and stronger relationships — and usually a renewed buzz about what we can build together.

I get why this question pops up so often—titles like that blur together in my head sometimes. If you mean the Netflix sensation '365 Days' (original Polish title '365 Dni'), then yes: that movie was adapted from the erotic romance novel by Blanka Lipińska. I remember binge-reading forum threads where people compared book scenes to the film’s more notorious moments; the book definitely predates the movie and the screenwriters took a lot of the source’s beats, even when they changed details. If, however, you’re asking about something called '365 Days to the Wedding' specifically, that’s a trickier case because similar-sounding titles exist across manga, webcomics, and novels. From what I’ve seen, some works with that exact title are original manga or webcomic projects rather than adaptations of a separate novel. My best practical tip is to check the credits: publisher pages, the manga volume’s front matter (author/artist), or the film/series credit block will list the original source. I usually skim the first few pages or scroll to the description on the official site to confirm. Either way, pinpointing the exact title (and language) clears things up fast—I do that first, then hunt down author names or ISBNs.

I get why this is confusing—titles that mix numbers and life events pop up all the time. If you meant the Polish/Netflix erotic drama, then yes: that franchise continued after '365 Days' with two follow-ups, '365 Days: This Day' and 'The Next 365 Days'. Those pick up the messy romance and keep going with the same main characters, so if you binged the first and wanted more soap-and-action, those are the obvious sequels to watch. If you actually meant the manga/light-novel-style romance titled '365 Days to the Wedding', things can be different. Lots of single-volume or short-run romance manga don’t get full sequels, though they sometimes get extra chapters, side stories, or special one-shots. My habit is to check the publisher’s page, the author’s social feed, and sites like MangaUpdates or Bookwalker to see if the creator announced a follow-up or a spin-off. If you want, tell me which format you’re talking about—film or manga—and I’ll dig in with more tailored tips.

The main characters in 'Around the World in 80 Days' are quite dynamic and memorable, each contributing to the story's charm and adventure in unique ways. The protagonist, Phileas Fogg, is an intriguing character – he's an English gentleman with a very peculiar but admirable obsession with punctuality. His character is almost robotic at times, meticulously planning everything and keeping his emotions under wraps. You can't help but root for him, though! His quest to circumnavigate the globe in just 80 days is a wild challenge that sets the stage for so many uproarious moments. Then, there’s Passepartout, Fogg's loyal French valet, who adds a nice layer of warmth to the story. Passepartout starts off as a bit of a rascal, but his character really shines as he becomes Fogg's right hand during their journey. The banter and camaraderie between him and Fogg provide some of the lighter moments in the narrative, making the story feel more balanced. I love how Passepartout's personality contrasts with Fogg’s; it's like the classic odd couple you often find in adventures. Their dynamic makes you appreciate how different characters can influence each other's growth throughout the journey. Of course, we can’t forget Aouda, the spirited Indian princess who becomes an essential part of their adventure. Her introduction to the journey is dramatic, and she showcases strength and resilience that inspires both Fogg and Passepartout. I think adding her to the mix also gives the story a romantic subplot, which enhances the narrative’s emotional depth! She’s a classic damsel, yet she stands apart from traditional portrayals by being substantially more active in the story. Lastly, I have to mention the antagonists they encounter along the way—both natural challenges and human obstacles! They face everything from trains that break down to characters who want to capture Fogg or stop him from succeeding. This adds so much tension and excitement to the narrative, as you never know what twist might come next. It’s impressive how Jules Verne crafted these dynamics, keeping readers on the edge of their seats wondering if Fogg will complete his audacious journey in time! It's a fantastic read, filled with adventure, humor, and unexpected friendships.